


Vulnera Sanentur

by shadowintheshade



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bigotry & Prejudice, Depression, Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Loss of a twin, M/M, Mutual Pining, Porn in Later Chapters, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, bereavement, everyone is dealing with trauma, ginny dumps harry in first chapter, teenagers dealing with trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 57,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22089064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowintheshade/pseuds/shadowintheshade
Summary: After testifying at the Malfoy family's trial Harry finds himself having to rescue them a second time from an angry mob outside the courthouse. Taking them under the protection of the Order of the Phoenix he installs them at Grimmauld place to keep them safe. Cue, a group of very damaged people and the people who are trying to fix them - some of whom are both helping and in need of help. Harry struggles to help a damaged Draco but every time they talk he ends up kissing his face off. Hermione and Narcissa form an unlikely alliance and George needs more help than anybody can give. Steadily a group of survivors, floundering in the after war wreckage come to cling to each other to keep from drowning.Heavy angst with a happy ending.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 175
Kudos: 481





	1. Harry

**1\. Harry**

_Dear Mr Potter,_

Harry read the letter for the third time, wrapping his head around it and nodding to himself.

_I am writing to you from the Ministry Detention Centre where my family and I are awaiting trial. I will not insult your intelligence by giving you extraneous details that I know you will not need; suffice it to say the newspapers have been both brutal and inaccurate in their portrayal of events and we are left facing anything up to execution or life incarceration in Azkaban. A lack of evidence that we gave specific aid to – Lord Voldemort during the war is apparently no longer sufficient, and in light of the evidence presented of our home being used as his headquarters we have been requested to come up with evidence of actively fighting against him at the final trial a week on Wednesday._

_To this end I have been prevailed upon to write to anyone who might give such testimony in our favour. I will not beg for myself but humbly ask that you appear at the hearing on Wednesday next in our defence. For my son's sake, I will beg if necessary. You're our only hope, Mr Potter,_

_Sincerely,_

_Narcissa Malfoy._

“Hermione!”

Harry half runs, half walks up three flights of stairs, until he finds Hermione in the library, cursing at the books.

“What's the matter?”

“These – these _bloody_ books won't open for me! They _hiss_ at me you realise – actually hiss at me!”

“That – _does_ sound like your idea of a nightmare, yeah. Hermione take a look at this for me, will you?”

He hands her the letter and she gets up off the library floor, kicking a book which spits and scuttles away from her under a shelf. She reads it over with a little frown between the eyebrows and he casts an eye around the library – it has only taken Hermione three days of _Harry duty_ to simply trash the place _–_ she and the Weasleys are taking it in turns not to let him be alone even though he cannot help but feel a lot of the time as thought that is exactly what he would like best. Still, he's glad she's here now, for advice, and it _is_ a picture to imagine the look on old Walburga's face downstairs if she could see what Hermione had done to her precious library.

“You don't look very surprised,” she says finally, tapping the corner of the letter on her teeth and looking at him closely. He sits down in one of the fat green armchairs.

“I think I was expecting it, yeah,” he nods - “I mean – you've seen the papers.”

“And you want me to help you decide if you're going to – help I mean?”

“No, I already know that -”

“You're going to then?”

“Of course.”

“Can I ask why? I mean what does she mean by assuming you even _have_ evidence in their favour?”

“When -” he sighs, he has avoided talking about the battle these past five weeks since he's been hiding out at Number 12, ignoring the press - “When I died – I mean when everyone thought I'd died - Voldemort sent someone to go and check – only it was Narcissa who checked. She knew I was alive and she told him I was dead. If it wasn't for her I _would_ have died.”

“You never told us.”

“It never came up. Until now.”

“Why did she do it?”

“She asked me if Draco was still alive; she did it when I said yes – I think by that stage she just wanted to save him.”

“Huh.” Hermione sits back down on the floor, rocks back on her heels - “She's actually human.”

“We're all just human, Hermione. If we only learnt one thing this whole time I think perhaps that's it.”

“But then – Draco? And _Lucius?”_

“Draco saved my life at the manor. He knew who I was, I could see it in his eyes, he wasn't even in _doubt,_ but he lied for me. If I don't save him I'll never know why.”

The answer sounds just a little over – practised to him as well, and Hermione definitely ends up looking at him strangely.

“That's all?”

“You remember he threw me his wand in the final battle? He broke away from the others just to help me – besides isn' it enough?” he silently begs her not to probe further because he knows there is something else, he just could not quite say what it was.

“ _Lucius?”_

“From what I've heard, the Ministry are treating them as a unit, and I can't let two people who've risked that much for me die just because they're connected to a complete cunt, can I?”

“So – what are you asking my advice on?”

“The thing is – I _have_ been following the case, she's right. Public opinion is so gross against the Malfoys right now – largely thanks to our old friend Ms Skeeter – if they _do_ get let off I'm afraid the waiting public might just become a lynch mob -”

“So -?”

“So when I get them off, I want the Order to be there to apparate all three of them back here before that can happen. What do you think?

Hermione lets out a long whistling _wheeeew_ of breath.

“You think it's that bad?”

“Yeah. I do. I think it's that bad -” he pauses just on the verge of telling her that the thought of Draco at the mercy of an angry mob makes him feel thoroughly sick but stops himself. He's been looking at their pictures in the papers for weeks now, Lucius half broken and confused – well perhaps he deserves it – Narcissa, inscrutable and proud and Draco -

Draco just looks like he's trying to avoid the paparazzi at every turn, eyes averted or dazzled, meeting nobody in the eye, half frantic, on the verge of tears all the time. Harry hates the way it makes him feel, hates that he finds himself wanting to see the old sneer back, that flash of wicked mischief in the eye that used to itch so ( _good)_ irritatingly under his skin. He couldn't save him before, he realises now he had a whole year in which he could have tried – but he'll be damned if he does not try now.

“Not all of them are going to like it, Harry.”

“I know. But you'll ask them?”

“I'd say ask them yourself, but you explained that so badly even to _me -_ not to mention you still don't want to be seen leaving here, do you? And in summary yes – I will.”

“Thank you Hermione. You're a true friend.”

“I _know._ But – Harry?”

“Uh?”

“Ginny's gonna be _mad._ Can you please do something for me and have a good long think about the two of you while I'm gone?”

“Think – about – Ginny?”

“-and it's exactly _that_ frown Harry that means I'm asking you to. I'll be back later.”

Hermione apparates out and Harry flops onto his back in the sofa and thinks – _about Ginny,_ Hermione said. What _about_ Ginny? Why would she be mad he wanted to save somebody who saved him? Does she hate him? Does she especially hate the Malfoys? Did Draco do something he doesn't know about? Surely he always picked on Harry the most? And then Ron and Hermione. Maybe Hermione meant think about her fondly – well he does, like all the Weasleys – ah maybe that's it – he ought to be able to summon up something more for his girlfriend. Nope, it's gone again. There's only one face that swims into his mind when he tries to conjure her up, and it's pale and pointed and it's always been there, every time he started to think too much about anything. He darts away from thoughts of that face like he's a shoal of fish, all shivery and breaking up, coming back to this one thing like it's a nesting ground. Bad thought. He feels himself going red. He gets up, unable to account for the feelings of restless itchiness, and wanders the house. There's too much past here. Too many things that belonged to Sirius, Lupin, Tonks, like an In Memorium list. He lingers in the drawing room running his fingers over the gold strands of tapestry – Sirius and upwards to somebody he was told might be his own ancestor, feeling the ancient fabric, the threads without really seeing them. An hour later he hears voices in the kitchen and he looks to where his fingers have been lingering for some time, tracing them over golden threads as though through strands of golden hair, all this time lingering on one name – _Draco Lucius Malfoy._

_-x-_

Far from all of the Order have come. On his request Hermione had made it clear that this plan was one that might mean keeping the Malfoys some number of weeks at Grimmauld place, for which he suspects he needs at least a good few of them to stay. Luna is there of course, Molly and Arthur, Bill and Fleur, Hermione, Ron, Ginny and last of all George, trailing after his family like a shadow.

“So uh -” he looks round at them all - “Hermione told you the plan right? Does uh – anyone have any questions.”

“Yeah,” says Ron - “I don't get it mate – arent't we supposed to be rounding up Death Eaters, not rescuing them?”

“They're not Death Eaters,” he says immediately, feeling his cheeks grow hot - “Hermione I thought you covered -”

“I'm _still_ not an owl, Harry – I _said_ there'd be questions.”

“Death eaters kill people,” Luna announces to the room as though nobody knew this - “They never killed anyone.”

“Is that really reason to save them though?”

“They saved _me,”_ Harry wonders how many times he is going to have to say this - “Everyone who is here to help me say yes now, otherwise you're free to go. Honestly. I understand.”

The truth is he's not sure if he does – or he does, but he knows in his heart he would resent them anyway.

“I'm in,” says Luna. Harry nods at her gratefully.

“Us too,” says Bill, Fleur nodding. Molly and Arthur speak next, Hermione and then Ron -

“Yeah alright mate.”

“Us too,” George nods - “Right Fred?” he looks to his side. Everyone tries to look elsewhere. George nods to himself, remembering for the thousandth time, and his face looks as though it hits him again for the thousandth time -

“Yeah,” he says - “Right.”

“I'll come with you to the trial, Harry,” Ginny says “But I'm not going to stay and I want to talk to you.”

“Right,” Harry nods. “Good. Next Wednesday then. Thanks everyone.”

“I saw Draco rescue a spider from a leaky tap once,” Luna informs them vaguely, and slowly everyone leaves, leaving Harry awkwardly alone with Ginny, Ron and Hermione tactfully excusing themselves and hurrying into the next room.

“Wow,” Harry nods dully, knowing what's coming and struggling to take it seriously - “I feel like Mary Poppins on dismissal day at the Banks house.”

Ginny doesn't laugh. He sighs.

“Look, I know I'm dumped, Gin,” he groans. “Can we just not? I don't even know _why?”_

“Why are you doing this?”

“I told you all – they saved me – there's no-one else who can help them and Mrs -”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Enough people have died!”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Jesus, Gin, you're like a broken record! I just _told_ you!”

“This is your problem Harry, you don't even _know._ You're right, you _are_ dumped – I was going to anyway, but I was hoping to be able to be a bit nicer about it. You're not invested in me, you never were! You're more invested in -”

“Yeah?”

“ - in someone you hate.”

“I don't know what you're _talking_ about. Jesus. Why don't girls ever make sense?”

“See the thing is, Harry, when you work it all out you'll get the answer to that question too, then maybe we can be friends again.”

“You don't hate me?”

“No I don't hate you, you plonker. But I _am_ mad, and I need you to work it out – I just can't be the one to tell you what half of us already know. It's not fair. I'm sorry Harry”.

When she goes he feels lighter. It feels like a relief.

-x-

“Harry James Potter?”

“Present.”

“You're not in class, Mr Potter.”

The court ripples with people chuckling. Harry only notices that Draco is not one of them. There was a time when he would rather have died than not front the _Laugh at Potter_ Brigade whole heartedly. He just looks down at his fingers on the table, still and tense, every line of him tight and as though he has been paused, just waiting, not even caring what happens to him. He has been watching them since they got into the court room. Narcissa gave him a mildest fraction of a nod when she saw him looking, Draco made eye contact like a butterfly in flight, eyes skittering away in the instant like a frightened foal. The others are stationed near the exits, ready to move in; Harry just wishes he could let the Malfoys know, the nerves coming off Lucius are enough to knock a man out and no wonder. The crowd on the way in was as ugly as he predicted, shouting for their deaths, for immediate lynching, shouts of _Kill the Death Eaters! Poison the Purebloods!_ And other new catchy slogans, Rita Skeeter forcing her camera into their faces until Draco had looked seconds away from panic. Harry had wanted to leap in front of them and fight them all off.

“Mr Potter, it is Mrs Malfoy's claim that she lied to Lord Voldemort about your death, thereby saving your life; is this true?”

“Yes.”

“Can you explain this to us?”

“Yes.” He manages it calmly, not looking at anyone.

“You also claim to have evidence exonerating Mr Draco Malfoy?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you could tell the court about that?”

“When my friends and I were taken prisoner by the snatchers and sent to Malfoy Manor, we were met by the late Bellatrix Lestrange – I was under a jinx at the time and she struggled to recognise me, but she suspected that Draco would know me and asked him to identify me -”

“For the purposes of handing you over to Voldemort?”

“To my death, yes. He didn't, even though it is my belief that he did recognise me. Even though he put himself and his family at risk of death by doing so. He saved me again -”

“Thank you Mr Potter that will do. You may be seated. Mr Malfoy, please rise.”

It takes Draco so long to react, Harry is afraid for a while that he will not. When he does, he looks around the room for someone, perhaps who will stop him having to be visible.

“Mr Malfoy can you corroborate what Mr Potter has told us?”

“I -” the whole courtroom can hear Draco's jerky breaths and something in Harry aches for him - “Yes – that – that's correct.”

“ _Did_ you recognise Mr Potter at the time in question?”

“ _\- yes.”_

“Louder please, all responses must be fully audible to be valid.”

“Yes.”

“And you did not identify him to Lord Voldemort at that time. Why not?”

Draco looks stricken; Harry is itching in his seat to leap up and shout at them to leave him alone -

“-didn't want to -” the rest is a mumble.

“ _Please_ speak up, Mr Malfoy.”

“I didn't want anyone else to die, I hoped -”

He flashes a desperate look to Narcissa that Harry reads as _can I say – is it safe now?_ She nods that tiniest of nods again and squeezes his hand - “ - hoped he would defeat Voldemort.”

Draco is shaking like a leaf when he sits back down, half reeling. The court adjourns. When they reassemble it is with the words Harry had desperately expected and needed -

“In light especially of Mr Harry Potter's testimony, the Family Malfoy is found Not Guilty and cleared of all charges.”

The court goes wild, the majority of the shouting made up of objection. An angry viewer just behind Draco leans forward and hisses -

“Good luck against the lynch mob!” so spitefully that Draco almost jumps out of his skin and so loudly that even Harry hears. He nods to the others by the door and runs down to join the Malfoys -

“It's not safe for you out there,” he says - “I've got people outside waiting to apparate you out if you'll come with me.”

“I don't think -” Lucius tries to summon up a glare but his heart is not in it and Narcissa cuts across him -

“Thank you Mr Potter, we will follow your lead. Draco stay next to me.”

Draco just nods, barely even nods; he looks as though he has just been pulled back from a cliff edge and had been picturing the fall so vividly it's still happening. When they step outside the court and see the crowd crashing up towards them like a storm-lashed sea, only Harry on the one side and Narcissa on the other hear Draco make a little strangled sound of terror in his throat. Terrified he might do something stupid like bolt, Harry grabs his hand too tightly for Draco to fight it and shouts -

“NOW!” the others swinging round from all sides to form a circle around the Malfoys and Harry, wands drawn. When they apparate out, Draco clings so tightly to Harry's hand Harry thinks it will feel like splinching if he ever lets go.

-x-

It's a shock, landing in the hallway at number 12 and hearing the sudden lack of shouting and mayhem. Draco lets go of Harry's hand like it's fire and retreats behind his mother. Harry looks around to make sure everyone is safe and whilst he is reassuring himself that they are, the familiar screeching starts up -

“MUDBLOODS! FILTH! BLOOD TRAITORS AND REPROBATES IN MY HOUSE! IN MY HOUSE NO LESS, OH WOE THE DAY! SCOUNDRELS! TRAITORS - Cissy! Narcissa, my dear girl, how are you, it's been too long! And is that young Master Draco? Let me see you, my dear boy!”

Harry chokes back laughter and shock – he has never seen Walburga beam before, and thinking about it – he rather wishes he never had.

“Draco,” Narcissa sighs wearily. “Meet your Great Aunt Walburga. Can't anything be done about her?” she adds in an aside to Harry - “Auntie always was rather strident, most undignified – you couldn't take her down?”

“Irremovable sticking charm,” Harry sighs - “Sirius tried a thousand times.”

“It's been so long,” Narcissa murmurs, taking a few steps down the hall, looking about her in wonder. For a moment she looks quite shockingly young, a small girl's light coming into her eyes.

“Where – are we?” Draco frowns, staying near her.

“This is – this _was_ the Ancient House of Black,” Narcissa half smiles - “I grew up here – with your aunts Bella and Andy – then it was left to cousin Sirius and he – oh well -” she appears to shrug off something very heavy and more than one of the others notice her do it - “I suppose things like disinheritence don't matter like they used to. There's more to life than purity.”

She stops suddenly, her face momentarily betraying how hard she has shocked herself. Lucius makes a choked sound of horror and objection, but stifles it under his wife's glare.

“Mr Potter -” she turns back to Harry - “Do I take it that my cousin left this house to you when he died?”

“Uh – yeah -” Harry feels awkward suddenly, as it occurs to him for the first time that if the house had not gone to him it probably ought to have gone to her. “- Sorry,” he adds lamely.

“But, um – of course you're welcome here for as long as you need. I don't know if you've seen the papers but those crowds – they're not pretty and they've been camped out at the Manor all this time in wait. It might be best if you – stay for a bit?”

“I quite agree.” She nods before anyone else can object.

“Do you want – anything – drinks – um – or I can just show you to some rooms but I mean – you're free to – I mean it's your choice,” Harry babbles, wishing he could sink into the floor boards with every word.

“I think, under the circumstances, that would be best, yes, and Mr Potter?”

“Mrs – Malfoy?”

“You saved our lives today, Mr Potter. Twice, I suspect. Please do not feel a need to be apologetic for anything, my family and I are eternally indebted to you.”

“Um,” Harry says, usefully, blushing and awkward.

As everyone starts to fan off in their separate directions and he leads the family to a corridor of rooms on the second floor, he notices only that Draco is glaring at him from narrowed eyes with a cutting glance like fire on a knife, and that his lip is curled like a tongue of flame. It makes him feel curiously hopeful, nostalgic even, and something else he cannot name.

_Work it out Harry,_ he hears Ginny's voice in his head, and wonders for the hundredth time what she was talking about.

**__x__**

**Chapters will swing between different character povs. The next one is Narcissa.**


	2. Narcissa

**2.**

**Narcissa**

A knock on the bedroom door startles Narcissa awake, and for a moment she looks around the room blinking, her mind disoriented into feeling like a little girl again, waking up in this very room to knocking of a house elf with a breakfast tray.

But that was nearly thirty years ago and this knock was considerably stronger. Her brain goes through the looping spiral dance of readjustment as she sits up.

“A moment please,” she calls, getting out of bed and slipping a dressing gown on, one of her aunt's, heavy, black and thick with embroidery. She opens the door cautiously.

“Mrs Weasley?”

“Just to let you know about breakfast, dear – you all are welcome to join us.”

“I – thank you – I will be down. I suspect Lucius may not.”

“No, I didn't think so dearie.” She watches Molly attempt to suppress a smirk and fail. Oh dear. That means everyone heard. She supposes they could not have avoided it if they wanted to; she cringes inwardly at the idea of anyone hearing her raise her voice like that, not to mention the _Useless cunt_ part of her screaming with which she had shocked even herself, before slamming the door to her room and leaving him out in the hallway. Well, it had been worth it to hear Draco laugh anyway, even if she had heard him crying later in the room next to hers as she tried to sleep.

“We just want you to know -” Molly says brightly - “That you and your son are welcome with us for as long as you like and we're ever so grateful you know – for what you both did for our Harry – it can't have been easy.”

“No,” she says, guarded. _You killed my sister,_ she thinks and she tries to muster up some feeling about it, but there is very little to be had.

“Well!” Molly plunges on - “I'll give a knock next door, shall I?”

“Perhaps not,” Narcissa presses her lips together - “Draco's not good at being woken up – late night – maybe best to let him sleep.”

“Mm,” Molly needs - “The kids've been through so much, best to give them space, eh? My George, he -” her lip wobbles and she cannot finish.

“I'm very sorry for your loss, Mrs Weasley.” Narcissa nods, meaning it deeply, despite how full of rubbish the woman is.

“Thanks dearie. I'm sorry for -” she trails off.

“No,” Narcissa agrees, no judgement in her voice - “You're not. Don't mind it.”

“Do anything for 'em though wouldn't we? Our kids, you know how it is.”

“Yes. I'll see you downstairs, Mrs Weasley.”

-x-

Nobody is exactly rude to her at breakfast but she feels the iciness when she walks into the room and stiffens herself in return, pulling herself up straighter than ever, jerking her head up higher, aware that this will only alienate her further but knowing no other retort. The Potter boy at least makes an effort to smile at her and she is appalled by how grateful it makes her feel.

“No Draco?” is actually the first thing he says, which warms her to him all the more.

“Sleeping.” She sits down next to the boy and, trying not to make it look too awkward, pours herself some tea - “He's not good at – gatherings at the moment – especially round the dinner table -” she wonders if Potter knows why - “If someone could be so kind as to leave some food -” she trails off to the room in general - “- please -” she adds, feeling degraded by the word - “- he's not been eating properly since -”

“Year six,” Harry nods. She looks at him in renewed surprise, wondering that he noticed.

“Yes.”

Breakfast is a quiet affair after that, everyone focussing on eating and getting out as quickly as possible. After a loudly shrieked -

“NO! NO DAD, I'M NOT O- FUCKING KAY! WHY DOES EVERYONE KEEP ASKING ME THAT AS THOUGH I POSSIBLY MIGHT BE?”

\- from George in the next room, everyone finishes up all the faster and mutters excuses before hurrying off in different directions.

Narcissa finds herself at a loss in what was once her own house. She wanders back upstairs, thinks about knocking on Luicius' door, realises she does not want to apologise and is not going to speak to him until he speaks to her – a battle they always have after a row and one she always wins. She walks on, thinks about knocking on Draco's door but hears him moaning in his sleep and simply goes in. He _is_ moaning, thrashing and crying in the sheets like he's in the middle of a battle. She swoops down to the bed like an owl to a branch, takes his head in her lap and rocks, holding onto him as gently as she can without ever wishing to let go. This is it, the one thing that can make her cry, that twists her heart like a handkerchief until she feels like she could burst – when her boy wakes up, jerking and shivering and looks up at her with wild eyes and whispers -

“ _I'm burning”._

His eyes are bright and huge, but it's the whisper in his voice that kills her, the lack of strength in him, how he sounds more surprised and confused than scared or horrified like he might – _ugh – deserve_ it, whatever it was. She cradles him when he starts to cry messily, but quietly, shaking so fiercely she fears for him; he's so thin these days. She wishes he did not cry so silently, that he never had to learn how, but at least he's crying now, after the past few weeks perhaps it's something.

“I want -” he says, muffled in knee - “I love -” she can feel him swallow hard, choking it back down whatever it is and she has an inkling, she really does, but she is surprised ot hear him even say this much; she was sure he _didn't_ know it yet. And he does not give her more and that's alright, she just lets him cry and does not dream of telling him not to or claiming that anything is alright.

Later when he breaks away, turning over from her, sinking back into bed, she gets up, saying -

“There's food in the kitchen when you come down”.

She makes it very clear that she is saying _when_ and not allowing the option of an _if._ Draco ignores her and pretends to be asleep. She sighs and goes out quietly.

-x-

In the corridor she closes her eyes tight shut for a second and gathers her thoughts and everything else together with one long intake of breath. At least she knows her priority now, not that it comes as any huge surprise, but yesterday she was less sure. If she needed to look after Lucius, if she needed to get a grip on the family, if she should hurry them out of this place and away from these people. Now she realises that everything she has to do requires them to stay and thankfully they have leave to do exactly that.

Most of all, once again, she has to help Draco. Little else matters. And with sudden clarity she realises who best to talk to to help her help him. She does not like it, but she grits her teeth and sets out through the house to find her.

-x-

“Miss Granger?”

“Yes?” Hermione answers without turning round; when she does turn and see who it is her face snaps closed - “Mrs Malfoy,” she says coldly, closing her book and standing up from the sofa defensively, Narcissa realises, not deferentially. The girl opens her mouth for a brief moment, on the verge of saying _can I help you?_ But she does not say it; Narcissa realises she does not want to help her. Well, she supposes, why would she.

“May I speak with you?” It feels awkward and she knows it just comes out snooty. Still, she knew this would not be easy. What is, these days.

“I suppose I can't stop you.” Hermione puts her book down, and perches on a stool instead of settling back into the sofa. Narcissa waits for a gesture from the girl before taking a seat, noticing, when she eventually gets the gesture, that the girl does not take her left hand off her right arm.

“I am so sorry about what my sister did to you, Miss Granger,” she says, still stiffly, but perhaps Hermione catches the note of sincerity in the apology because something flickers in her eyes and she looks down before looking back up.

“I didn't notice you trying to stop her at the time.”

“Trying to stop Bella from doing anything only ever made her do it harder and with a thousand times more intent. You should probably be grateful I did not.”

“Forgive me if I'm not. Grateful I mean. Look, Mrs Malfoy I won't lie – we helped you because Harry asked us to, but I can't say I like or want anything to do with any of you – frankly I cannot think of a single thing we could have to talk about or anything we might have in common.”

“What about the people we love?”

“ _Very_ different people.”

“And if those people care about each other?”

“Alright. Go on.”

“The truth is, Miss Granger, I need your help. Can you tell me what made Mr Potter testify for us and then rescue us from the courtroom like he did? I consider myself an excellent judge of character – some ancient prejudices aside – but I simply cannot fathom his actions.”

“That's because you don't know him. If you did you'd know that Harry would never let anyone be tried unfairly or let them go without all factors being considered. Is it true then – that you saved his life?”

“It's true.”

“Why?”

“For Draco,” she almost half shrugs - “Of course. For the chance to get back to the castle and find him and because I knew that if Draco was alive, it would be because Mr Potter had made it so. Am I correct?”

“Yes. He saved him. In the room of requirement. There was a fire – he made us go back.”

“Did he now. Why?”

“Like I said, you don't know Harry – he wouldn't let anyone _die –_ not even – well he just wouldn't.”

“No,” Narcissa murmurs, sighing - “No, neither would Draco.”

“I'm not sure that's exactly enough reason to start thinking they have _so_ much in common.”

“Do you think not? Alright -” Narcissa nods internally and pulls her resolutions together tightly - “I'm going to tell you something, Miss Granger, and I'd respect your opinion on the matter. You see the truth is that ever since first year, your friend Mr Potter has been just about the only thing my son has talked about. He pretends otherwise of course, but that gives me all the more reason to suspect -”

“Suspect – oh my _god!_ Are you trying to tell me Draco _fancies_ Harry?”

“Not exactly my dear – I suspect that whatever it is will always be a lot more complicated than _that._ Also I suspect it goes a lot deeper. My son feels things very keenly, you know -”

“No I can't say that I do.”

“That – as you said to me about Mr Potter – is because you don't know him. I have suspected for a long time now that your friend is the only thing – the only _person_ who might make Draco happy and I wondered if you could tell me anything of how Mr Potter feels about _him?”_

“You're asking me if I think Harry is – what? In love with Draco?” Hermione stands up and sits down again - “ _Draco -”_ she murmurs half to herself - “In love with _Harry_ -”

“That – is not exactly what I said.”

“No, it makes _sense!_ I mean it really does make sense! I'm sorry Mrs Malfoy I don't think I can tell you what you want to hear.”

“Miss Granger, I don't expect you to tell me that Mr Potter thinks about Draco the same way Draco thinks about him, I merely wondered – you see my son is what I might – if I were being quite honest – call _obsessed_ with Mr Potter. Can you tell me in all honesty that it has always been completely one sided?”

Hermione stares wide eyed at nothing for a long moment, thinking about the duels, the Quidditch matches, the constant following of Draco, comments about Draco, repeated assurances as to how much Harry _hated_ Draco, all those times he looked like he was going to say something he bit back on - years and years of it, stacking up to one conclusion.

“No.” She sighs - “I don't think I can. The truth is -” she realises it as soon as she starts to say it - “The truth is I've never seen Harry more – more _alive_ than when he's fighting with Draco; they do seem -” she groans - “They seem rather to always orbit and then collide, don't they? And when they do then – then it's like a supernova, like they're both made out of stars – oh _god -”_ she stares at Narcissa as though for help - “He _does_ love Draco! I should have listened to Ginny!”

“Ginny?”

“Ginny Weasley – she was going out with Harry, but she dumped him – just a few days ago actually – because of the trial, she said he was _always –_ well never mind what she said but she simply _screamed_ at him – that he didn't really love her, that he thought more about someone he hated than he thought about her, and he said he supposed he did and – well it wasn't pretty, that's why she didn't join us.”

Narcissa steeples her fingers under her chin, thinking. It is more than she hoped for and she does not imagine that Hermione is the kind of girl to exaggerate or fabricate, in fact, to her extreme surprise she finds herself quite liking the girl; she is steady and practical and in truth a lot like she was herself growing up.

“Do you think he knows?”

“What? Harry? No. Not even slightly. Boys are _useless_ and I mean – they've done nothing but fight for seven years – though it occurs to me now that might have been their way of flirting – oh dear.”

“Hmmm. I wonder if you could help me then. Help me talk to the boys, either of them, whenever you get a chance. Try and help them to realise what we already know.”

Hermione looks thoughtful for a moment.

“You grew up here, didn't you?”

“What? Yes. Of course.”

“Because I've been doing some research on the history of the place, and really some of the things I've been finding out are _fascinating_ but you see a lot of the books in the library, the family history ones – well they just won't open for me -”

“No they wouldn't – you have to be -” she stops tactfully.

“ _Toujours pur,_ I _know -”_ she barely suppresses a shudder - “I'll tell you what I think of _that_ later – just for now – well – do you think you could help me with it?”

“You mean will I help you with your project if you help me with mine? Yes, very well.”

She reaches out an elegant hand, shocking herself as she feels it move. Hermione looks just as shocked in the moment that she takes and shakes Narcissa's hand. She smiles awkwardly; it feels _so_ strange.

“I never thought I'd shake hands with a -” she stops herself - “With someone like -”

“Someone like me?” Hermione raises an eyebrow - “You can say the word if you feel you must.”

“No,” she shakes her head, eyes darting to Hermione's arm and back. “Nobody deserves a permanent mark that does not define them,” she says - “Trust me. I know – and some words do not need to ever be said. I will be telling my son the same thing. His father does not rule this family anymore.”

“You know what?” Hermione calls out as Narcissa reaches the door - “You're not that bad!”

Narcissa gives a half second snort of a laughter that is the least ladylike sound Hermione has ever heard her make, and it makes her give a similar laugh.

“Thank you Miss Granger, I'll take that as a compliment.”

__x_


	3. Draco

**3\. Draco**

In spite of his mother not giving him the option just to stay in his room, Draco keeps finding trays of food brought up to him when he inevitably does do exactly that. It's not that he's a coward, he tells himself, it's just that he cannot face them – any of them. Alright, it's that he's a coward. There seems to be too little fight left in him to even deny it to himself. Sometimes he picks at what she leaves him; a lot of the time he ignores it and goes back to sleep.

All he seems to want to do just now is sleep. Every time he wakes up there is immediately too much to get used to – so much his head spins and he feels exhausted before ever getting out of bed. He has to remind himself where he is, what he is doing here, how he came to be here and then _everything –_ everything that has happened over the past two years just swamps him. He has to remember that he is allowed to even think again, that he does not need to hide any thoughts, that he does not have to lie to himself to prevent the Dark Lord overhearing some truth that will see him dead.

Potter. Bloody sodding Potter – that's the thought that would have seen him dead the most quickly. It's also the reason he's alive, the reason he's _here_ and half way safe. At least people keep saying he is safe – but it feels like a lie. Maybe it's just that it's too hard to believe, he has forgotten how to imagine it even. The only thought that sounds like it's really his own is _hating_ Potter, resenting him for being, for having helped him, for _being_ there for some reason – every time he cautiously opens his door with the thought of going out; like the bastard's walking this corridor just waiting for him to do so. In fact _Piss off Potter_ is about the most he has said to anyone in the four days he has been here, half babbled nightmares to his mother not counting.

Honestly, hating on Potter is the most comforting emotion he seems to be able to conjure up right now. He just wants to be left alone, utterly alone, alone enough to imagine that nobody is even trying to get into his head any more. He got so _good_ at shutting himself off even he is unsure who he is any more, what he stands for. The whole last part of the war – the battle – all he seemed to do was run on instinct, instinct leading him to the room of requirement, to swing himself up onto the back of Potter's broomstick when it was offered, to instantly run away from the fire when he could and hide in a broom cupboard until the world outside seemed quieter, taunted by the memory of an awkward third year fumble in that same broom closet that seemed just then to be a million years ago.

The only thing he had stopped to question the whole time was The Dark Lord's request for him to rejoin them. He hadn't wanted that, he _really_ hadn't wanted that. He had just wanted to stay on the side he was stood on, mostly hidden behind the other kids, kids he knew, who were familiar and comforting in their familiarity, kids who were fighting to take the Dark Lord down, and how he wanted them to succeed by that point! He could feel all of their eyes on him when he stepped over, judging him, ashamed of him, not expecting any betterof him because why would they. He had tried to say no, tried in his heart to make a stand, to be like – and this shames him to tears three times a day – to be more like Neville had been – but then he had heard his mother's voice, he had remembered the danger to her and his father in ever defying – Voldemort – it feels like a little win in his head every time he allows himself to think the name – and he couldn't do it to her. Besides, Potter was dead and he was a coward; what more was there?

Potter was dead. He had died. He had died and they had failed – he still cannot forget being aware of that. Feeling the absence of that _twat_ in the world like a great big sucking hole.

Instinct again had sent him running the instant he had found out otherwise, running to throw Potter his wand because nobody else would know he was unarmed, nobody else could even react quickly enough, and then there was no choice but to leave, his mother screaming at them, dragging them away. He had been almost certain of death every minute from then on – from Voldemort before he knew he had been defeated, and then from the Ministry when they had come calling.

Four days not coming out of bed feels like nowhere near enough to catch up to it all. He has his head under the covers when a knock comes on his door. He ignores it, hoping whatever it is will go away. He is still under the covers, like a rabbit in hiding, when he hears the door open and his father's voice saying his name. He does not move, does not reply.

“Draco,” Lucius says again, and he feels his weight on the side of the bed, hears the wood shift - “I know you're not asleep. Come out of there.”

He groans out a sigh and pushes back the covers, glaring at his father. Just at that moment he discovers that he hates him – he would probably have hated anyone who disturbed him at that point. But this is his _father;_ his father who got them all into this mess in the first place, who has not come out of _his_ room either since they got here.

“ _What?”_ he snaps. He sees his father's face go through a series of moves as he wonders whether or not to come back with a typical _don't you take that tone with me_ retort. But he doesn't. Draco would almost have preferred it if he had, at least that would have been something normal.

“Your mother's worried about you,” he says eventually. Draco notices that he does not look at him, that he looks down at his hands in his lap, that he still hasn't shaved and his hair is tangled. He hates his father looking like this. He wonders what _he_ looks like – if it's the reason his father won't look at him.

“Fine. She can tell me herself.”

“She has. I know she has.”

“Good. Leave me alone.”

“Draco -” his father sounds pained; he feels a rush of satisfaction to hear it. So let him be pained - “You've been in here for four days. You have to come out eventually.”

“So do you,” he says stubbornly, sitting up, pushing himself back against the headboard and glaring. This time he does get a -

“Don't speak to me like that.”

“What?” Draco sneers, he feels his lip twitch and he likes it - “like you're still the head of this family? We'd be nowhere without mother. We'd be _dead_ or in Azkaban, like you still want to be.” He stops, shocked with himself for actually saying it.

“I – don't know what you mean.”

“You – _left_ us -” the betrayal of it wells up inside him, it has been there, dripping bit by bit into him ever since he came home from his fifth year to find his father gone and Voldemort in his place - “You – you – left us to _him –_ to his -” he cannot say _mercy,_ after all Voldemort had none - “You were _gone_ and you didn't want to come back, did you? Even to be there for us. He made me take your place – he made me -” he swallows, unable to voice all the things Voldemort made him do, all the things that were done to him while his father was not there to protect him.

“Draco, I'm -”

Lucius _does_ finally turn to look at him and Draco finds he cannot stand it, not that look on his father's face, the guilt and shame and yes, he is genuinely sorry and it is the last thing Draco can stand to hear.

“No!” he practically jumps out of bed - “No I don't want to hear it!”

He practically throws himself across the room and yanks open the door, slamming it behind him and standing in the corridor, breathing heavily, leaving Lucius still sat on the edge of the bed. He is still standing there, fists clenched, nostrils flaring, lip curling with a thousand unvoicable furies and bloody bastard fucking sodding Potter rounds the corner, stops when he sees him and raises an eyebrow in prelude to a question.

“Oh fuck off,” Draco spits, turns back to his door, remembers that his father is still in there and he cannot face him again and dithers long enough for Potter to _talk_ to him, for fuck's sake.

“Draco -” Harry takes a step towards him - “wait – are you – we need to -”

“We need to _nothing,_ Potter -” he snaps, feeling his stupid chin wobble, his eyes brim up - “And it's _Malfoy.”_ He stomps off down the corridor at a walk so fast it is almost a run, looking around him for a room that nobody else is in but suddenly it seems as though there are people _everywhere_ and every small sitting or drawing room he tries to dive into has at least two people who turn to stare at him and he has to run away from those terrible looks on their faces that imply they are going to try and speak to him, express their shitty delight at his appearance out of his room or ask him how he bloody bastard _is._ He wants to scream. He has just ducked rapidly out of the third room when somebody grabs him by the wrist and hauls him into the room opposite. It's a small storage room full of cardboard boxes and stacked chairs, a fan of gilt framed paintings balanced against the back wall. He can hardly move for junk and when Potter places himself between Draco and the only door he almost panics, heart pounding in his chest like a butterfly in combat boots. His instincts scream fight or flight but he has pretty much established he's not much in a fight and he can't get past Potter without touching him, which he suddenly feels incredibly loathe to do.

“Get out of my way.”

“No.”

“Get out of my way, Potter -” the butterfly is hammering at him, he is ready to hyperventilate from the feeling that he might cry, and please gods no not in front of _him - “-please,”_ he whispers, which is enough to make his face crumple. He clenches back angrily on the tears.

“Look -” Potter holds his hands out as though taming a fretful pony - “Calm down, alright -”

“Don't you _dare -”_

“I just want to help -”

“Oh -” he hears his next breath hiss out in a burst of slightly hysterical laughter - “I bet you do. _Saint_ Potter - Our Lord and bloody saviour just wants to help _everyone -”_

“ _No -”_ He looks angry now, for some reason this makes something hiss in Draco's chest like cold water pouring into an overheated pan - “Fuck _everyone,_ Malfoy. I – I want to help _you –_ I -”

“Yeah I think you've done enough,” Draco snips bitterly, and this time he does start to barge past, because that door that will get away from this arsehole looks very like salvation right now (only it doesn't, does it? He hears a little voice in his chest, familiar to him from his sixth year, a voice that is scrabbling to be let out staying _stop me stop me, you're the only one who can -)_ and Potter _does._ He resists Draco's attempts to just barge on past, and Draco finds himself essentially running into him like running into a wall. He realises for the first time how close they are in this stupid pointless room, how he can feel the heat coming off of Potter, the tension in his body, his bloody breath against Draco's bloody face and it occurs to him for the first time that he probably doesn't smell too good after the days in his room _and_ that he's still in his pyjamas and yet somehow, for some reason, these aren't even the main causes behind how red he can feel his cheeks going and if something does not snap _right now_ he feels in very real danger of just exploding and he _wants_ to, wants to just fall apart so hard everyone gets hit by the broken pieces, especially stupid, nauseating, bastard fucking _Potter._ He's breathing so hard it makes his chest heave, and puts up his hands to shove Potter away from him, but instead they clutch onto his shirt and just _stay_ there like this idiot's his life raft and he's so very sick of drowning and he suspcts that at first Potter's hands are on him to do the same thing – push him away – but he doesn't, just pushes Draco into a pile of stacked furniture and presses his mouth down on his like he's been drowning too, like Draco's lips are his only source of air.

It feels to Draco as though he has to be struggling, the push of his body against Potter's is so vicious, so intent, every fibre of him so hard it can only mean violence. But he _isn't_ struggling, he's just never kissed anyone so hard in his life, it feels like a battle. He remembers this – though it's been what, two years at least? He remembers it always feeling like a fight, always leaving him more satisfied than any other sensation he could imagine, or experience. He's so hungry – he had had no idea how desperate he was for this and he suspects the feeling's mutual but it is the first thing that has felt good in a long time and he kisses Potter like something feral might attack it's prey, like it's life saving, nourishing, necessary to exist. His hands are everywhere and it feels like they're pushing but they're not they're pulling closer like they could please, please inhabit the exact same space and there is a hand on the back of his neck, pinching at his skin and pulling at his hair and it makes his head spin and he's so hard, grinding it against the boy he hates in rage and urgency and need and it still feels like he could cry at any moment.

He hears himself whimper when Potter's hand slides up under his shirt, warm against his skin, a hand that moves on him so savagely he can imagine it digging through his skin, reaching between his ribs and yanking out his heart and he opens his mouth and is on the verge of whispering _please yes please –_ he's _so_ close before he realises he can't, that this feels too good, that he does not deserve it and he cannot possibly express so much so fast, and he tears himself away viciously though it fucking _hurts_ to do it, hurt making him snarl, lip curling, making damn sure to glare at Potter as he drags a hand across his mouth to dry it, like he does not even want the taste of him on his lips but he's lying with every gesture and Harry knows it.

“Draco -”

“Fuck off, Potter -” he manages to take a step back, inch towards the door - “I told you it's _Malfoy -”_

“Draco, please -”

“Leave it!” he shouts so loudly he frightens himself, can feel himself shaking under his skin - “Just – bloody well leave me alone!”

He tears the door open and leaves, slamming it behind him.

__x__

**I actually have the next chapter written so it should be up real soon :-)**


	4. Harry

**4**

**Harry**

_Great, H_ arry, thinks bitterly, _really, fucking fantastic, well done Harry._

He stays standing there for some time, in the storage room, staring stupidly at the door as though it might actually reopen and Draco could come back in. It takes far longer for it to occur to him than it should that this is absoloutely _not_ going to happen. He groans, shoves his hands in his hair, pulling until it hurts his head but still cannot stop it from spinning, realises he is swaying slightly and slides down onto the small square of free floor space with his back against the stack of old gold framed portraits.

He really had wanted to help – hadn't he? He had been sure of it. He had been hoping to see Draco since they had got here; so that he could _talk_ to him and see if he could help. _Congratulations Harry!_ yells a slightly manic voice in his head that reminds him a little bit of Peeves – _that was some A Plus help you offered there! With your face and your hands. And your stupid dick. Can't you chill for five seconds?_ He's still hard, he realises, with something very like despair. He feels like he would quite like to actually punch himself in the dick right now if it would just help him get a grip. Why does he have to get like this? Why can't he just _talk_ to Draco – to _Malfoy_ then, damn him – _normally –_ why does it always have to be a fight between them? He supposes it has something to do with their not being friends, having never been friends and he finds himself very very confused about whether he regrets this. He does not even know what he _does_ want them to be. Friends yes, maybe that's it, but that doesn't explain this fucking reaction – the one where they apparently can't stand too close without tearing each other apart with their eyes and then he just _has_ to touch – has to get closer with everything he is.

“Oh shut up,” he says out loud to his dick, which twitches at the very thought of getting closer to Draco. He has never met anyone he could control himself with less and there has never been anyone he _needs_ to control himself around more. What a fucking mess. He groans, wrists resting floppily across his knees, banging the back of his head softly against the picture frame behind him.

He's an idiot. _Bang._ A complete and utter idiot. _Bang._ And here he is now, stuck in a stupid cupboard because it's better than going out and facing the world. _Bang._ A fucking _cupboard._ Like he hasn't had enough of those in his life.

He _did_ just want to help. God knows he hadn't dragged Dra – Malfoy in here with the express intent of a sodding make out session – had he? No, he hadn't, he tells himself this extremely firmly. He had meant it that he wanted to help. He knew Draco was hurt, that he'd been hurting for a long time and he had managed to fail to help him time and time again. Usually when he asked people how he could help them he got _some_ kind of practical answer; why did Malfoy have to be so bloody difficult? The answer: _because he's Malfoy_ comes to him almost before he has finished asking himself the question.

He shouldn't have kissed him. He should have just pressed it until the bastard talked or even cried – he _had_ looked like he might – would that have been a good thing? Would he even know what to do? Why was Malfoy so mad about him having helped them already anyway? Why did he care so much? God he was getting obsessed with a spiral of questioning, it was like sixth year all over again, only with more helplessness and stuck in a cupboard with a stupid bastard erection and sense of regret.

He needs to get up and leave this cupoard, but to go where? Firstly all the people in the room opposite will look at him and he can't talk to them about this. And he can't follow Malfoy because he's been told in no uncertain terms to fuck off and leave him alone and honestly hasn't he disrespected this enough already not to mention actively violated his personal space?

Oh god, _violated –_ violating Malfoy. His mouth goes dry and he feels half a fever coming on.

“Seriously. Shut up,” he repeats, and is just on the verge of contemplating a quick wank and at least getting half a level of irritation out of his system when there's a knock on the door.

“Um -” he says out loud, then curses himself inwardly for saying _anything_ rather than just shutting up and pretending to be a bag of potatoes or something. _Then_ he forgets to add to the _um_ with anything useful, forcing the voice outside to say -

“Harry? Can I come in?”

“I – guess?” He wants to say no, wonders why he _didn't_ just say no, wants to say he's not here, but either way it's too late and there's Hermione closing the door quietly behind her.

“Harry?”She says looking down at him, frowning, arms folded across her chest - “ _Why_ are you sat on the storage room floor?”

“I – um – long story.”

“Why aren't you coming out?”

“I just -” he rubs a hand across his eyes - “Needed to be alone to think.”

“In a cupboard?” Hermione sits down on the floor opposite him, watching him with an overly penetrating look.

“I find them – comforting.”

“On the floor?”

“- no chairs.”

Hermione looks at the pile of three stacked chairs pointedly but does not say anything.

“I'm – having a moment?” he attempts.

“So you came into a cupboard?”

“To be alone.”

“With Draco Malfoy?”

“Oh – ah – shit.”

“Who we all saw storm out, so I'm guessing your _moment_ didn't go well and now you're still here – on the floor – doing what exactly?”

“I was – ugh – I was trying to help.”

“Malfoy?”

“Obviously.”

“By getting in a row with him?”

“It – didn't go down well, yeah.”

“Harry – did you never think of – of – of trying to make friends _before_ you -” she pauses meaningfully - “ _Have a row_ as you put it, in a storage cupboard?”

“I think I missed the _Making friends_ boat what, seven years ago?”

“And now you're regretting it?”

“Yes? No? I don't know? God, I don't know Hermione, okay? I just – I wanted to help them and I thought – well I thought the trial – what I said – and then bringing them here – that that would help but Malfoy's – well he's -”

“Hurting Harry, and not in a way that you can just fix like a spell. You _might_ want to try something a little like tact next time.”

“What makes you think I was tactless?” he flares up a little, knowing that he was absoloutely beyond tactless. Again Hermione just looks at him until he looks down into his lap, thanking whatever gods there are that his dick has at least shut up given Hermione's presence.

“Besides -” he sighs - “I don't even know there'll _be_ a next time. He hardly even comes out of his room and after _that -”_ he stops, not wanting Hermione to know what _that_ was. Hell he's not sure _he_ knows what it was.

“They're not going anywhere fast Harry -” Hermione reassures him “There's time. Nobody can stay in their room forever. But it might help if you're not waiting literally outside the door when he _does_ come out.”

“I didn't – well, yes, alright maybe I _did_ do that. I just – I don't seem to be able to think straight when it comes to Malfoy. I don't know why.” He is not sure why it has taken him so long to admit this out loud to anyone, let alone to actually think it.

“Do you not?” Hermione looks at him curiously as though _she_ knows. It's infuriating.

“No!” he almost yells, becase there's a part of him that _does_ know, isn't there, a part of him he presses down so hard it is almost contained in his feet.

“I don't want to sound bossy -” Hermione says, and Harry raises an eyebrow at her because she doesn't care a bit about sounding bossy and they both know it - “But I do suggest you work it out before you – um – _talk_ again. _Also_ more actual talking might be advisable.”

“Hermione, do not even -”

“Alright, alright -” she holds out her hands placatingly, standing up and brushing her palms against her jeans before she reaches a hand to Harry to help pull him up - “Just – work it out okay? And – no hurry - just come out of the closet in your own time, yes?”

She throws him a look over her shoulder that makes him wonder if she was speaking literally about this actual current closet or if there was a metaphorical closet hidden somewhere in her implication. He groans, rolls his head back with a crack and walks out into the hall. In the room across he sees Hermione talking quietly to George who looks up as Harry passes with what is becoming the familiar only – half – there look, nodding and murmuring -

“Alright Harry?”

Harry nods distantly and heads on up to the room that has become his. Except he doesn't. He takes a detour to the second floor and walks along the corridor just long enough to hear the sound of soft muffled crying from behind Draco's door. _Then_ he goes back to his room, sighing heavily, wondering why it feels like his chest has been cried straight into.

__x__

**Poor Potter :-P Not. George gets a chapter next. Poor Weasley. Poor me. Poor everyone. *Deep sigh*. What is this a healing house of circle jerk?**

**Author's note to self: In future do not let Draco write end of chapter notes? :-P**


	5. George

**George.**

“Yeah but – why me though?” he frowns at Hermione, unsure why she thinks he needs to hear about anyone elses problems just yet. He's not sure he can carry his own, let alone even _hear_ about anyone else. But that's selfish, he supposes, he's never been good or even _able_ to be selfish. So he listens as she explains in hushed tones that there's something going on between Draco and Harry that they don't even seem to realise is going on yet.

“What? You don't mean something -” he searches for a better word than the one that springs to mind – it's too difficult. There is nobody there to finish his sentences for him anymore, without which he finds himself barely able to talk coherantly half of the time. At least half. _Half_ is a word that looms like a dementor across his brain all the time these days.

“Something _gay?”_ he finishes, for want of that better word.

“I mean – that is absolutely the least likely way I would have put it -” Hermione sighs heavily. “But. Yes. If you must.”

“Since -wow- Potter and Malfoy, I mean – since _when?”_

“Hmm,” Hermione nods, thoughtfully, leaning back in her armchair - “Yes, I've been wondering about that.”

George makes a _go on_ gesture with a half arsed right hand. He's perched on the left of the sofa. There's room for another person on the right of him; nobody would have dreamed of filling that space.

“Because it only recently occurred to _me -”_ Hermione says, clearly thinking out loud - “And I do have a habit of being a lot quicker on the uptake than Harry – no offence to him. I mean, okay, they were clearly up to something in that closet just now – but I'm starting to think there might have been quite a few closets over quite a few years, only even if there were -”

She breaks off, brain catching up to her own words - “Well it's different now, isn't it? It's serious. Harry _cares._ I don't think he really did that before. Like maybe it was just a crush, I don't know, and now -” she flaps a hand with a sigh. “Well everything got serious, didn't it? Even -”

“Everything,” George echoes dully. “Even me. Yeah.” He stares off into the mid space for a while, absently. It's easier like this, he finds, to absent himself. He wonders where he goes when his brain goes out like this. He wonders if Fred's there. Something tickles the back of his mind, he remembers – that was it – he was having a conversation – with Hermione Granger. Something about Harry and Draco Malfoy, yeah, that was it. Was she waiting on him for an answr? He wracks his brain, trying to remember what they had been saying. Had she even asked a question? Shit.

“Sorry -” he shakes his head, tries to be present - “What was that?”

“I didn't say anything,” Hermione sags a little. “Harry,” she reminds him, remembering that she needs to - “And Draco. We have to talk to them.”

“Talk to them.” He means it to be a question but the inflection does not quite come out - “You want me to talk to Harry? And what -?”

“No,” Hermione – he realises slowly – looks like she's just only now working it out herself. “ _I'll_ talk to Harry. So, I suspect, will – someone else-” she looks a little shifty; George half raises an eyebrow but it feels too heavy to really lift - “I want you to talk to Draco.”

“Draco. Right. And again I say, why me?”

“I just think he's really broken -” Hermione stops talking just in time, although it's already a bit late - “And – and -”

“And so am I?” he finishes without malice, only sadness.

“I didn't mean -”

“Forget it – it's fine-” he waves a hand at her; it's not fine of course, nothing is fine, but he has come to learn only too well that he has to repeat this stupid little lie of a word a hundred times a day just to keep other people half way happy, and he _does_ want to help others be happy with as much as he can muster up a want for anything, which is why he says - “Okay, I'll do it.”

-x-

_Y'allright there, Georgie?_

_Alright Fred, you?_

_Eh, still super dead man, how's life?_

_Not bad Freddie, eating for two now aren't I? One of these days I'm gonna get fat._

_What's this about Harry and Malfoy, eh? Never saw that coming -_

_Nor me, and thanks for the mental image mate -_

_Point though – how you gonna talk to the little shit if he never comes out of his room? Magic?_

_I'm observing, aren't I? Early stages yet. This one's called operation Malfoy -_

_Not Operation Potter?_

_I've been assigned the bad guy part, maybe mix it up – operation MalPot?_

_Sounds shit mate – Drarry – go with that?_

_Man, do you ever shut up?_

_Shut up when I'm dead bro._

_Hey Fred?_

_George?_

_You_ are _dead._

…

_Fred?_

_Fred?_

_Fred?_

_You there?_

George frowns, coming back to the present, remembering and adjusting to the fact that the voice in his head is just his now – only it sounds like someone else. Only someone else sounded just like him. The adjustment is jarring, practically impossible every time. So he thinks about where he is – lurking in the second floor living room, low-key taking note of what the Malfoys are up to. Which is maybe a little shiftier than what Hermione asked him to do, a little more _extra,_ but hell he needs the distraction.

It's been three days of lurking already, and he's honestly starting to wonder what the point is; he watches Draco's door like a hawk, he's seen how many times Harry just _happens_ to wander past, not even noticing _him,_ just – you know _chilling_ on the second floor. Well to be honest, that doesn't feel too weird; the top floor of the Burrow was always his and Fred's, not to mention they were bloody good beaters, if they did say so themselves – he's good with being up high. Flying off into the sunset in year five – he thinks – that had been their best moment, they'll never beat it. He frowns. It's really true. _They_ never will. Fuck sake, he's barely twenty, too young surely to be mooching around thinking Glory Days thoughts.

He hopes Draco's alive in there.

He is just having this thought when the door actually opens and a pale, pointed face pokes out. He's paler than usual, George thinks; in fact, he doesn't look well at all. Lack of sunshine, food, interaction, hope – he supposes all of that will definitely do it, yeah. But he's dressed, that's a first. He watches him from the corner of the room in which he can't be seen – as he goes into his mother's room, stays there for maybe twenty minutes, comes out and wanders – like a ghost, it seems so aimless and yet questing at the same time – into the sitting room, doesn't notice George in the corner arm chair and sits down on the edge of the sofa looking around him as though seeing everything for the first time. Shit, if he doesn't say something soon he'll start to look like a stalker.

“Alright Malfoy.”

Draco nearly jumps out of his skin, half stands before he sees him, takes a deep breath and sits back down again.

“Oh, it'syou,” he nods, he could not have implied _only_ harder if he had actually said it - “Posting guards now, are they?”

“I'm not exactly standing at your door mate.”

“That – sounds weird, Weasley, don't do it.”

“What? Mate? Yeah, suppose it does. You know you say _Weasley_ exactly the same no matter which of us you're talking to? Are we just like some homogenised ginger mass to you?”

“That's about right, yeah. So who posted you? Potter?”

“Hermione, actually.”

“Don't trust me, do you? Any of you.”

“Should we?”

Draco looks down at his hands, masking a face that just for a second George can see is stamped with hurt, swiftly followed by a resignation that is almost worse.

“ _Actually -”_ he only realises the truth of it as he says it - “We're just kinda worried about you”. He is surprised to find this out, but he is, and he supposes if he is then they all are. After all, he agreed to this, if Hermione is helping she is doing it second hand. And yeah, damaged as they all are, none of _them_ had bloody Voldemort in their house, none of them were used like Draco was, except perhaps for Harry, and he has friends to talk it through with. Nobody, now that he thinks about it, has come out of this as badly as Draco. Huh. Except perhaps for him. _Self pity, Georgie? Doesn't suit you? Shut up Fred, not now._

“ _Yeah -”_ Draco sneers – weirdly it's actually an improvement - “Everyone's so _worried._ Like what am I supposed to be? Happy?”

“Yeah,” George nods, surprised - “You know what – I get that.”

“How could – oh.” Draco blinks at him. George almost wants to laugh, Malfoy's expression so clearly gives away that it has occurred to him for the first time that he's not the only one who came out of the war damaged - “Shit. Sorry.”

George waves the apology away.

“It's noth -” he starts, but he's so sick of saying it that he stops. For a long awkward moment they just sit there, at diagonals over a couple of metres of room, miles apart and close together in awkward brokenness.

“I keep thinking -” Draco says, not looking at George - “I keep thinking it has to get better. Everyone keeps saying it -” George nods, face scrunching up, _yeah, they do don't they? -_ “But – I feel like they're saying it because they don't know what else to say. I don't think they really _know._ The adults. They just want us to be better so they can feel better about it. I'm sick of them.”

“To be honest -” George has thought about it too; he is surprised to find out how much Malfoy's thoughts could align to his own - “they don't even want us to _be_ better. I don't think. They're happy enough if we just _seem_ it. I think.”

“Huh. That's - ” Draco almost says something else, but turns it into - “How's that going for you?”

“Um – yes and no? No as in – I still feel like shit. I get mad at having to fake it, knowing that if I say half of what's on my mind, if I look sad, if I cry too much it'll make my mum cry – yeah that sucks. Sometimes -” he confesses, in a quiet voice few have ever heard - “Sometimes I hate her for it. Like nobody else should get to miss him except me, because they don't _know,_ do they? But then - then I know that's unfair, and you can't compare pain just because it's different – like Harry, he lost his parents and then just like – _everybody_ else. And sometimes I think, _shut the fuck up George,_ what do you know about loss? But you can't do that, can you?It's not a set of bloody weights and balances -” he shrugs - “I dunno. Doesn't work like that. And you, you're a mess – no offence – you didn't even lose _anyone -”_

“But I did -” it coems out in a whisper, as though Draco would like to stop himself but cannot. George just raises an eyebrow, gently -

“Oh?”

“Myself -” Draco's eyes – oh dear gods, George thinks, if Harry loves him, and he suspects that Hermione might be right on that – then all of a sudden he can see why. “I don't know where I went,” he adds, so quietly George has to lean forward to hear him - “Fifth year I was there, and when I came home -” he waves a hand, “Father was in Azkaban, and I – I don't know when I went away or where I went. I thought it was going to be okay, that it might be good – being chosen for something _finally –_ I really thought I could be that person – _wanted_ to be – I think? Or I thought I did. And then – when I failed, the things He said, the way he treated us – I – I think about who I was in first year – second – third – and I can't see him in me any more – I miss that twat so much -” there is a break in Draco's voice that makes George want to hug him. He looks so small perched on the sofa, so lost, it's amazing how much like that first year boy he actually _does_ look.

“I miss _me_ so much,” he finishes, chest shuddering with the breath he has to take.

George finds he knows how the kid feels so hard he stands up, approaches the sofa, nearly sits down, realises Draco is sat on the right and he can't sit down on the left so he bites his lip and jerks his head -

“Move up so's I can sit down?”

Draco frowns and gestures to the other side of the sofa.

“Fred's side,” George shrugs apologetically.

“Oh.” Draco moves along. George sits down. He glances sideways, unnerved to have someone sat next to him, even if he was the one to make that move, and looks away again.

“I miss me too,” he nods, looking at his hands. He keeps on nodding longer than he should.

“What you said -” Draco nods - “About doing it for the adults – seeming happy. It's like – I want to? For mother – but then I keep thinking – wasn't it the adults who fucked us up in the first place? I don't mean mother – or your mother – but the ones in charge, Dumbledore – Voldemort – they just – they _used_ us – like – like we were pawns in a game of wizard chess and it didn't matter who got smashed to bits as long as the right side won in the end.”

There seems to be more of a thought half formed at the end, and for a minute George thinks he is going to go on, but he doesn't. They all do this now then, trail off from their ideas, half-baked and lost, ghosts in their own skin.

“You know what you should do?” he says at last.

“Oh, I know, I know, stop feeling sorry for myself and -”

“Nah, fuck that. I think we've all earned a good bit of self pity, don't you? Nah, what you should do is get a bath mate, smells like it's been a while.”

“Why you -” Draco's eyes narrow in a flash of something half remembered, and for a split second George grins, just a kingfisher flash of a smile; _ah,_ he thinks – _there he is -_ “- that's um – that's probably fair,” he shrugs - “Show me where it is?” He looks embarassed, very small and very young, not only not knowing the way around the house he has been in for the past few days but a house that is, in many ways, more his than the rest of theirs.

“Sure.” He shrugs with one shoulder, he supposes he always did; him and Fred only ever having one whole shrug between the two of them.

“You know though -” George remembers, standing up - “You should talk to Harry. He's better at making people feel better than I am.”

“Not with me,” Draco mutters with so much bitterness that George raises an eyebrow and realises for the first time that Hermione was right - “Wait -” Draco glares at him suddenly, slantingly, out of narrowed eyes - “Did Granger put you up to this?”

“Up to what?”

“ _Talk to Potter –_ I mean what? What are you trying to achieve?”

_Damn Georgie, cover blown!_ Fred makes a plane crashing noise in George's head – _be cool! Be cool! Save the wreckage!_

“Yeah! Yeah, alright she did! She asked me to talk to you -” _Niiiice -_

“- but I did it because I wanted to. Because – well – you need help, alright. We all need help, don't we? You and Harry most of all, because if something can be fixed it _should_ be – you're both here aren't you? That's more than anyone can say for me and Fred.”

“We're not – I mean – oh for fuck's sake -” Draco exhales heavily, looks up at the ceiling as if for patience, but also to stop his eyes from leaking, George knows the look - “Sometimes -” Draco whispers very fast and sudden - “Sometimes I think there _is_ only one person who can help me, if anyone can – and you're right, of course you're bloody right. And we get so close to something and it all goes wrong – even if we end up bloody well snogging or something stupid we still just _break_ before we can even think about being fixed – it's like - ” he dares to look back at George, surprise in his eyes at finding himself holding on to the older boy's arm. His eyes look silver with wetness, glittering in the dull light of the corridor, glancing around him rapidly as though afraid anyone else is listening -

“It's like I'm reaching out a hand to him over and over again and he never takes it, not even in my dreams. I can't believe I just told you all of that – I hardly even know you – I mean that is we're not – I don't even _have -”_

“Sometimes I speak to Fred in my head – I mean basically – all the time -” George hears himself say, interrupting to put Draco out of his misery, something deep in him knowing that the best way to alleviate Draco's current embarrassment is to tell _him_ something in return.

“I haven't told anyone about that,” he adds - “Mother would probably just cry and I've had just about everyone's tears so many times I'll drown if I get any more. Don't tell anyone?” He starts swearing a great long internal stream of bad words – did he just _confide_ in Draco Malfoy? _Trust_ Draco Malfoy? The world is truly fucked.

“-thank you,” Draco says stiffly, awkwardly, but with a curious quiver around the lips that suggests he means it deeply - “I won't. I hope -” he raises his head a little, pulling his chin up as though with a great effort - “I hope you – I hope it works out for you – you know.”

“Yeah,” George feels his lips do that almost – smile again, like they have forgotten how but are trying all the same - “You too.”

__x__


	6. Hermione

**6.**

**Hermione**

_Priority List –_ Hermione writes at the top of the page, bent over a desk in the library. It feels like she lives here these days, always drawn back to the room in spite of the books animosity towards her. She stares back at the page and nibbles on the end of her pen. Being here – taking time to think about being here – what they're all doing in this house together at this time – it seems strange. She's not even sure any of the others _have_ thought about it – have managed to look at the overall situation from outside enough to wonder at what was going on here, but she's trying, she really is.

_Harry. Top priority._ She writes – _Struggling with everything, still not convinced it's all over. Blames himself for everyone who died. Says he's getting over that but he isn't. No idea as to long term plans. Won't talk about feelings. Possibly isn't over having died. Not sure how to bring that one up. Focussed on short term goals only, but doesn't even know why. Short term goals – keeping an eye on ~~The Malfoys~~ Draco. Obsessed with Draco. Probably in love. Doesn't know he's the former, let alone the latter. Can't talk to him without snogging his face off. Snogging face off not helping. Low key stalking Draco ~~again.~~ Needs to sort this out before any kind of healing can be achieved._

It's all about healing, she thinks, at the core. All of them together in this house, hurting and tearing their feelings around the walls, each of them a breath of wind in a hurricane. And here she is in the centre of that storm trying to make sense of it by writing it all down. Trying to work out a logical plan of helping.

_Ron,_

she writes, and stares at the page for a second. It occurs to her only just now that she _is_ going to do this. Take down notes on _everyone_ no matter if they're in urgent need of help or not, there is not a one of them who does not need _something;_ who could possibly have come out of a war undamaged. How could there be? She determines not to try and make this list have any kind of order of priority any more because to compare what each is dealing with is impossible.

_Quiet. Except with me. Actually seems to have found himself a bit, come out of the fight a bit stronger. Worked his identity out when he broke that first horcrux. Still has nightmares, fire and flood._

She taps her pen on the paper and goes back to her entry under _Harry -_

_Nightmares?_ She writes – _Doesn't talk about them any more. Did say he did not have the Voldemort ones any more. Makes sense. But as with Ron – fire? Supposedly one of the top five causes of trauma response. Not to mention dying. No-one to ask, sleeping alone._

Thinking about it, she wonders if any of them _don't_ have nightmares. It would hardly make sense not to which brings her to -

_Draco. Definitely a top priority, even though we're not doing that. Arguably dealing the worst of any of us here. Won't talk to anyone except his mum. Terrible attempt at conversation with Harry. NEEDS to talk to Harry, but -_

She groans. She's almost certain fixing Harry and Draco are essentially one issue. But what can she do? She can't throw them in a room together and hope they'll just sort it out because she's fairly scertain that they _won't_ and she's afraid, volatile as both boys are, that anything that came out of their encounter might just make things worse. It feels as though they are simultaneously avoiding each other and keeping strict tabs on each other.

_Stick with original plan._ She writes – _get others talking to them where possible as with Draco and George yesterday. Success? Maybe._

Which brings her to -

_ George. _

She finds herself underlining his name. Staring at it for a long time and then not knowing what to write. There has to be hope for help to be given and she honestly does not know what to do with this.

_Molly,_ she writes instead – _Grieving for Fred. Making things harder for George. Trying to be kind but is so overtly emotional it's not helping anyone. Needs someone to tell her to talk to her sons, listen to them, not talk at them. Contact Ginny???_

She puts large question marks by that one. While she's fairly sure Ginny's presence would be helpful to Molly, she's not sure how it would affect Harry or if Ginny could keep from damaging the careful work she's been putting into the Harry/ Draco problem. It's strange enough to her and she knows it weirds Ron out, so how would Ginny feel? Either way, probably not helpful she decides.

_Arthur –_ she writes next to Molly – _very quiet indeed. Keeps asking everyone if they're alright, probably because he's not, but this is winding a lot of people up, especially George._

_Narcissa. Actually probably the most appropriate parent in the house right now. Impossible to read as to personal feelings. Worried about Draco, but trying not to get in his face. Encouraging him to talk/ eat/ come out of room/ act like a human being, but trying not to push too much. Holding that whole family together but I suspect mad at Lucius. Not sharing a room at present. Trying to get on with the rest of us but finding it awkward, similarly attempting to be less of a prejudiced bigot. Not everybody giving her a chance. Molly is trying but they just clash rather badly. Pro Draco/ Harry and on the same page here with me more than anyone. Helping with my research – I suspect she has feelings about being back here._

_Asked me about Andromeda the other day – may be hinting at a desire for reconciliation? Must speak to someone (Harry??) about this._

_Lucius. Coping badly with the new order of things as well he should. Doesn't come out of room much except to eat/ bath and scurries away from us like a spider. Isn't being outwardly rude but won't talk to any of us either. Is probably not attempting to be less of a prejudiced bigot. Struggling badly but honestly I'm having trouble caring in this instance._

She finds herself thinking about Lucius as compared to Draco. They both shuffle around the place looking like shells of their former selves, except on the one hand she cannot help but feel a little vindicated, and on the other she finds herself shockingly sympathetic. She wonders if that's how it's hitting Harry – seeing Draco so changed, so unmade from what he was, and while she cannot say she misses the bully who gave her that much grief, she finds herself almost rathering he _was_ still that kid. Also, she suspects Draco actually _is_ trying not to be a dick quite so much, whereas if Lucius is being less offensive it is not necessarily by choice.

_Bill and Fleur,_ she writes finally but then segues – _I'm not sure what we're expecting here throwing Weasleys together with Malfoys in a co-habitation scenario. So many people will blame those on what they may perceive as the other side for their losses. Does Bill blame Draco for his own injuries? Draco did let the werewolf into Hogwarts that night. Bill doesn't really talk about it. He doesn't seem like he holds grudges and he and Fleur seem eager to move on soon. Think they're still just hanging around to provide moral support. Wondering how/ if I can take advantage of this._

And that's everyone, she thinks – _turns out my priorities right now are fixing just essentially everyone in this house. Nobody is fine and all are damaged._ As an afterthought she scribbles down -

_Ginny and Luna – apparated out as soon as they got here. Luna might be a useful person to get talking to Harry and/ or Draco? Has a tendancy to say just the right thing or the rude thing or at any rate, the thing people need to hear. Must contact._

Hermione puts her head on the desk, thinking; this is how she ends up falling asleep here so often she thinks, but does nto really mind. It occurs to her, listening, that the library is actually silent today. The books have stopped snapping and clattering in anger at her very presence. She tentatively lifts the cover of one, curious; it hisses a little but does not bite, which is such an imprvement she raises her eyebrows. It's Narcissa's influence, she suspects, clearly. She has proved such an unexpected ally. It occurs to Hermione that she had come close herself to being too prejudiced against her to allow this; needing to find someone alive to blame for the horrible _mudblood_ scar, Narcissa had seemed her closest option. But then when she apologised so sincerely and in fact she confided to Hermione just yesterday that she had never seen eye to eye with her sister, had in fact found Bellatrix _loud and frankly distasteful­_ only even keeping in contact because she was the only sister she had left, and _family ties have to mean something I think?_ After the last few days working on the books with her, Hermione had, at that point finally got up the courage to mention Andromeda, and _yes,_ Narcissa had said, _maybe I was wrong about that and –_ she watched the woman's lips twitch in what seemed to be a savage interior battle before she asked cautiously if Hermione might be able to ask Andromeda to visit with the child some time?

_Tell her – tell her Cissy says she's sorry, and she still has the star charm? She'll understand. Those words mind._

Hermione _doesn't_ understand, but she supposes she doesn't need to, purebloods and their riddles; yes, but they're still sisters after all, it seemed, and reconciliation can only be a good thing?

And then there was this morning. Hermione bites her lip and turns back to the _Draco_ section of her notebook -

_Draco came down to breakfast this morning, dressed and everything. He looked like he wanted to go invisible but he sat down anyway. Nobody knew what to say to him and he didn't say anything to anybody except finally to ask for the tea. Had a few sips of tea before noticing Harry staring at him from across the table. There was a lot of staring, nostrils flaring, I think I noticed chest heaving. It was impossibly awkward. Whatever it is between them seems too big for their bodies to hold. I don't know. I just -_

_Anyway eventually, Molly offered him the toast, and he reached out at first then stared at the toast like it was the enemy, dropped his hand, said “I'm sorry – I can't -” and ran off. I said “Harry, don't you dare -” but he was off after him a second later. We all just looked at each other and shrugged. George gave half a smile, half a shrug, said “Young love,” and he and Ron actually laughed which, while good to hear I_ suppose _made me glare at Ron so hard he's still not speaking to me. Don't know where Harry and Draco went. Awaiting further upheaval._

Hermione closes the book, mutters a charm to make the writing invisible – should anyone find it in the desk she keeps locked in the library very few people go into – and puts it away. She sits still for a long time, practising stillness like she suspects Narcissa might, wondering if it will help her brain to be quiet. _Someone has to be the still point in the storm,_ she says to herself fiercely – _And it has to be me because I'm the only one who's fine._

_I am, I'm fine._

__x__

**Unsure how much I get on with Hermione as a character - hence most of this section was about other people, though I _do_ have a semi plot brewing for her later on. Next chapter I'll be back on familiar ground with Draco again though :-)**


	7. Draco

**TW: Draco has self harm issues and is sort of eating disordered. If anyone needs to skip this chapter let me know and I can provide a summary so yous can just go to the next chapter when it's up and still know what's going on :-)**

**7.**

**Draco**

It seems almost unjust to him, as he heads downstairs, that nobody will ever know the effort this takes, how brave this feels. Because it's not an act of heroism; it's not even useful to anyone, it's just – just breakfast. It's impossible. He stops on the stairs, clutching the bannister, almost ready to fall from weakness in the knees, almost turns and runs back to his room. But he promised, he promised his mother he would try. He's failed at everything, disappointed everyone, time and time again – he can do this. He can do breakfast. He clenches his fist, gathers all of his mental strength. When he approaches the door to the kitchen and hears voices he almost fails again, he manages to peer in without them seeing him, counts the people – _Potter – Weasley – Weasley – Weasley – Granger –_ not everyone, thank all the stars, but five people still seems like far far too many, and one of them is Potter, which makes it double the nightmare. Driving each other mad with scalding eye contact used to be such a favourite pasttime – now it's just one of the reasons he finds it hard to even look at him. He tenses his face, punches himself in the arm, not gently, swears at himself and walks into the room.

It's exactly as he feared; everyone stares at him. He forces himself to sit down even though it makes him feel positively sick, and for a moment he just breathes. He had hardly realised this – how scared of the dinner table he was – any table apparently, any group of people like this. He stares down at his hands, white knuckled and clutching the table edge – for a long while without looking up. Then he looks up, and obviously it's Potter, he's sat down right opposite him and though everyone else is doing their best not to watch him, this idiot isn't, is he? He's staring at Draco like he's an affront to their breakfast table, like he would quite like to hex him right off it. It is all he can do not to tremble. Instead he focuses on turning that chin wobble into a twitch of the lips, and it feels like a wash of relief when he feels it, and the sneer allows him to glare back at Potter across the table, sodding saviour with his fucking hero complex, Draco _hates_ him, hates him intensely. It feels as though the world narrows to a spirally point at which nobody exists but the two of them, trying to kill each other with their eyes.

Strangely enough hating Potter gives him enough strength to work his hands into taking tea with a muttered _thanks,_ and stirring in milk and sugar cubes until his hand steadies enough to lift the cup. He never takes his eyes off Potter, even over the rim of the teacup; glaring at him as he glares back, clearly too polite to tell him to fuck off in front of everyone else, but it's painfully obvious he wishes him a million miles away and preferably dead. Well, that's fine, the feeling's mutual. He sips his tea. It's too hot but that's alright, it's the first thing he's swallowed in public for a long time. One moment at a time. He takes toast ( _Nagini! Dinner!)_ drops it again as though it burns him. The thought of eating (being eaten) rises in him for the millionth time like bile and he is terrified for a moment he might actually be sick (one disclocated reptilian jaw and he could have fit right down that throat himself, he saw it work dinner down, heard the bones crunch) – he has only been able to eat since by clearing his mind of everything, alone and in hiding as though if anybody saw the roles of food and himself would be reversed. He has not been able to stop thinking about it, even able to tell anyone, though he suspects his mother knows. She was there. He wishes he could be as elegant and self contained as her, wishes he could make his face a mask like she can, make his whole self a mask, feeling and betraying nothing.

“I'm sorry -” he stands up quickly, voice thick - “I can't -”

He does not exactly run but it feels like running away and though it shames him it also feels – not quite good but a relief – because at least he _can_ run away from this.

“Malfoy!”

He has not made it into the next corridor before it comes. He stops, he doesn't have to stop, why does he even stop? He should have just kept on going – but no. Stops. Breathes. Holds his face tight in one hand like it might fall off, like pressing that mask right on, digs his fingertips into his hair line and whips around.

“Leave me alone, Potter.”

“No!”

It makes no sense, Potter didn't want him there, probably doesn't want him in his house at all, connot stop looking at him with that murderous look in half black eyes - so why follow him? His nostrils flare and he steps forward, right into Draco's personal space, his fists clench.

“I'm warning you -” he feels himself fast becoming enraged by the proximity, flaring up at the very existence of Potter, half _afraid_ of his presence but not stepping back to increase the distance between them. In fact he steps forward until they're almost nose to nose, both sets of fists clenched, breathing each other's breath.

“Oh you'll what? Annoy me? You don't have a wand, remember?”

“ _Oh -_ ” he sneers, lip twitching jerkily - “- and I wonder why _that_ would be -”

“Look Malfoy, if you wanna fight me _fight_ me – if you want to -”

Draco punches him. He doesn't really mean to and is faintly shocked at it happening – more shocked apparently than Harry is, who just staggers back clutching his nose and prising off his glasses which are now covered in spiderweb cracks across both lenses, Draco's fist getting him direct centre of the nose. He stares at his fist on pulling it back, as though surprised to have felt it do that, bewildered as to why it hurt _him._ He never threw a punch before. It's like a lightning bolt hitting him, flooding him with shock and guilt and a fizzing kind of delight. Also – he shakes his hand, wincing -

“That _hurt!”_ he exclaims; it comes out accusing. Harry squints at him -

“Oh it hurt _you?_ I think you broke my nose, you wanker!”

“You want to punch back, punch back Potter – if you want to -”

Potter grabs the back of his neck in his free hand and kisses him; it's angry, messy and brief – just to make a point Draco supposes – he could have done the same thing just as easily as punching him and it would likely have felt just as good.

“Alright, Potter – just to prove a point. _Occulus repare,” h_ e adds as an after thought.

“How did you -?” Potter stares at his glasses before putting them back on.

“It's been a while,” Draco shrugs - “It was learn some wandless magic or nothing.”

“Here -” Harry thrusts the wand into his hand - “Just take it.”

“You're just -” Draco stares at his wand as though unable to believe it - “You'd just give me it back?”

“I wanted to for a long time -” he shrugs - “I was hoping to do it more – more – I don't know – _better?”_

“ _More better?_ Wow, Potter.”

“Shut up. But you kept being a dick, didn't you? I wanted – I don't know what I wanted -” he sighs, walks into the living room, slumps in the corner of the antique green sofa. It occurs to Draco how easily he could just fuck off now, head back to his room like he had thought he wanted to in the first place but here he is, pulled after Potter as though on a string, as though he cannot fall out of orbit or he'll just plummet through space. The cord that binds them never has been able to stretch far enough for comfort. He takes the other side of the sofa, pulling his legs up and holding himself tight around the knees.

“Do you ever?” He cannot look at him, not if they really _are_ going to have an actual conversation.

“What – know what I want? I keep thinking so and then – but you make it hard -”

“Me? Why me? Did it ever occur to you, Potter, that not _everything_ is my fault?”

“I never said – did it ever occur to _you?”_

“Shut up,” he mutters. He hates it when Potter looks at him like that – like he has never been afraid to make eye contact in his life, like he can see through every attempt at at projecting or deflecting he ever makes – like he _gets_ him. It feels as though the sofa is simultaneous incredibly long, with Potter far too far away from him for comfort, and far too small, throwing them too closely together.

“But it _is_ all about you, Malfoy – I'm surprised that doesn't please you.”

“ _What_ is all about me?”

“You think I brought you all here because I'm such a big fan of your family? No. No way – alright, your mother is – I owe her and she's decent – I think – but I saved you all because of you. You twat,” he adds, just to keep it light enough for Draco not to run away. It works. When Draco rolls his eyes and sighs -

“And we're back to how you keep saving me -” it is not nearly as caustic as it would normally have been - “You really do have a saviour complex the size of the moon don't you? Well congratulations, it's done, you don't owe us anything, and if you could _for five seconds_ let us forget what we owe your great and gloriousness -” he can feel himself getting angry again as he goes on – angry, frustrated, ashamed – and is actually glad to be interrupted.

“Oh will you _stop?_ It's over. We're not on opposite sides anymore. I'm not sure we even were -”

“Oh please. Death Eater, remember? The worst?” the words are soaked in bitterness; he half thrusts out his left arm as a reminder, reaches a hand to push back the sleeve but stops suddenly, clenches his fists tight and prays Potter won't notice.

“What is it?” he frowns, bloody observant fucking bastard.

“Nothing.” He holds his left arm protectively against his chest, right hand pressing down on the back of his left wrist, hugging it to himself - “Let it go.”

“Show me.” Why does he have to sound so demanding? So authoritative? Under other circumstance it would have been quite painfully arousing.

“No!”

“Does it hurt? Maybe we can find a way of -”

“It doesn't matter. You can't. I've tried – there's nothing I can -”

He can feel terror behind his own eyes, straining through his head as he stares fixedly at Harry's face, wondering if he _can_ do this. He decides the only way he can ever decide anything – spontaneously in a rush of hope that it's the best move – he pushes back the sleeve and shows Harry his arm. Harry does a manful job of not reacting too harshly, but Draco still sees him swallow hard from the effort of it.

“The hell did you do?” he says quietly, but not – Draco realises, watching his face – accusingly, just sad; sad for him. It occurs to him that the warm spark in those eyes, the spark that has been following him so much of the time, might be compassion. _Is that what it looks like?_ he wonders, hardly knowing. He looks down at his arm to get away from it, picks at a scab, so many tiny little pinprick scars and scabs from stratching far too hard for far too long, repeated too often.

“In the bath – I wondered if any amount of washing could get it off – then I couldn't stop – still can't – like – if I scratch off enough skin would it come off then? It can't go all the way down to the bone – can it?”

He finds himself looking beseechingly across the sofa as though Harry actually could have an answer to this, but all he can say is a very soft -

“ _Oh -”_ a breath of pity that he cannot swallow down - “ _The worst?_ Oh, Draco -”

“Oh fuck off-” He's talking more to himself than to Potter, trying to snark away the prickling feeling behind the eyes – how did he manage to hold back tears so sucessfully every time he had to over the last two years, but now he's just a sodding waterfall? Like Potter might be safe to cry in front of, where the Dark Lord wasn't? He has to remind himself otherwise quite fiercely - “Fuck off, Potter, this isn't a pity party”.

Harry looks down briefly; when he looks up again there's a curious merriment in his eyes. Oh no. It was that – that stubborn resilient brightness in him - that got Draco so obsessed in the first place, all the way back in first year – so he _does_ still have something in common with that kid. If only the something wasn't currently smiling at him with glittering green eyes that look at him as though they care.

“Wow. Try saying that several times quickly.”

His brain catches up to what he said before, and his lip twitches into something that almost resembles a grin and his shoulders jerk with a huff of amusement. Potter catches on to half a smile like a fish to a hook and reaches out his hand to Draco's right. Draco has to practically sit on his hand to push it out of reach because his instinct shrieks at him just to take his hand but he won't. He remembers a viciously made vow to himself from years ago – that whatever else happened – they could kiss, they could fuck, they could kill each other but he would _never,_ not if the world was ending, take Harry Potter's hand if he offered it in friendship. Never.

It's as though Potter reads that vow in his eyes now because he drops his hand and sort of nods.

“Just -” he heaves a sigh - “Let me help? What do you want? Anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything I can reach to.”

“I want -” it's not quite true, but it's the truest thing he can admit to - “I want to not be here. This whole – whole circle jerk of comfort? A house of fucked up people trying to talk each other better? It's not for me. It might be good for Weasleys – good for mother, I don't know. But I just – I just -” his chin wobbles and he feels suddenly very small, painfully young, like a boy who would like his mother here right now please and thank you very much - “I just want to go home.”

“You _can't -”_ Potter actually sounds sorry for it. “It's mad there. The press – they're camped out in the grounds – after the war – after you all weren't there – all the wards came down and just now there's so many people there we couldn't get them up again – we tried – after the Ministry took you. People are mad. It's not fair but they are. I don't think it would be -”

“Safe? I haven't been safe in two years, Potter, who has?”

“- good. I don't think it would be good for you to face that.”

“You don't get to decide that. I want to see at least. I want to visit – there's nobody inside, I take it?”

Harry shakes his head -

“The wards on the house are still good, nobody can apparate in except family.”

“So who actually checked this?”

“Do you know your aunt Andromeda?”

“In theory. But no, we've never met.”

“She's sort of with the Order – well, not with us, but linked enough. Turns out she was family enough to get in.”

“She did that? For us? Why?”

“No she did it for us – for me I suppose – because we asked. She actually wasn't against us helping you, you know. In fact I think your mum and Hermione – well anyway, that's their business. Yes, technically you can get inside, but you'd be surrounded.”

“Then I want to go. Just to see.” Draco sighs - “ - and to get some proper fucking clothes. Wearing other peoples' clothes is like bathing with your socks on. It's gross.”

Harry rolls his eyes -

“Do let me tell you about my childhood some time.”

“No thanks, Potter you're alright,” Draco sneers, feeling suddenly curiously better than he has done. “I'll come back,” he adds - “I just want – want some things here that are mine, if I _have_ to be a part of this love, hugs and bloody healing fest.”

“ _Fine,”_ Harry nods, shifting up the sofa towards him so that they are sat startlingly close together - “But I'm coming with you.”

__x__


	8. Harry

**8.**

**Harry**

It's not that he doesn't want to let Draco out of his sight it's just that he – doesn't want to let Draco out of his sight. He sighs to himself; it's like sixth year all over again – except without being convinced that Draco is up to something or being afraid that he might hurt anyone; anyone other than himself anyway. Turns out – and yes Harry now gets to feel shitty of ever thinking otherwise, oh yay – turns out Draco's only destructive tendancies are focused on himself. It also turns out that's the person Harry wants him hurting the least, so in many ways nothing has changed. In many more everything has.

“Now?” he asks, sat shoulder to shoulder stiffly on the sofa - “I take it you want to go now?”

“Now,” Draco nods tersely - “Yes”.

“We should probably leave a note – just in case anything happens and anyone misses us. So they know where we've gone.”

“Oh.” Draco rolls his eyes - “You're so thoughtful. Gosh, I wish I was _nice_ like you.”

“Shut up, Malfoy.” Harry gets up, goes over to the little writing desk, smiling. The words are so familiar they cannot help but come out of him almost affectionately. The funny thing is, he does not know when or how, but at some point it seems to him like Draco's sarcasm stopped being a complete pain in his arse and is now quite gently funny. In fact _Draco_ is funny. When had he realised that? It certainly wasn't the _Potter Stinks_ badges or _Weasley is our King_ but it _does_ feel like it goes that far back, like there has always been this core of him that was amused by Malfoy's humour, ennervated by his presence, tingling beneath his scornful silvery gaze.

Oh god.

It's like a bloody bombshell, one that everyone else might have already seen land and in the debris of which he has been obliviously running for years. This is more than just lust. How had he never seen it before? How long had it been like this? In fact, only in the face of realising that it is more than lust can he acknowledge to himself that he _is_ in fact hopelessly, stupidly in lust with Malfoy. For the first time since he was fourteen (oh fuck it thirteen? _Twelve?)_ he finds himself able to dwell on this, because anything is better than trying to get his head round the rest of it.

He dwells on it as he picks up the quill, scratching out the note as slowly as he can.

He _fancies_ Malfoy. Though it's a ridiculously tiny word for what he's feeling, has been feeling now for years, a twelve year old word. I mean of _course_ he does, they've been kissing angrily since third year, fights turning into awkward quick frenzied fumbles in broom closets that they would both run away from and pretend never happened until the next time it happened, third year, fourth year, fifth year – until sixth year had thrown up what felt like a wall of ice between them right at a time when his fantasies were going further than they ever had and his reality left him with less. He had not even allowed himself to acknowledge, at least by the light of day, the thoughts he had been whacking off to just about every night.

Malfoy. It was always Malfoy. It always had been. _How_ had he gone all this time ignoring it? Not that he had set out to fuck himself silly over the thought of him, but there he always was, his face, his hair, the infuriating fucking shape of him, fuelling every late night whimper, every savage wank. So many times his lips had shaped Malfoy's name in silence as he came, wanting to scream it. So many times when he had punched him or threatened him, been held back from him by his friends – he'd been hard for him too; it had been at least half of the reason fueling his rage. Really, thinking about it, Malfoy's annoyance levels, his petty insults – they had not been nearly enough to get under his skin the way he had let them, setting it prickling with the frenzied need to get closer to him – even if he had convinced himself it was only an urge to wipe the smirk from his face. It was _Malfoy_ who had got under his skin, not his stupid weak threats and childish insults, just him with his irritating beauty and irksome loveliness, the poison he put out never hurting Harry, only setting his blood on fire.

He signs the note _Harry and Draco_ and stares at their names together like that on the paper for a long time, wondering how in the world he can actually turn back around and face him now. _Harry and Draco Harry and Draco Harryanddracoharryanddraco –_ yeah, no, he can't look at _that_ any more either. He stands up abruptly, turning round quickly enough to catch Draco watching him with a raised eyebrow.

“Remember how to write, did we?”

“Shut up Malfoy,” he sighs, except he doesn't quite, he's tired and broken from discovery and it comes out a pathetic mumbled _shuddupmalfoy._

“So if you've no more essays to write -” Draco holds out his right arm as though offering it to a lady for a stroll. Harry stares at the arm as though it has injured him.

“Oh, you can picture the Manor well enough to Apparate yourself, can you?” He can't. Of course he can't. He was only there the once and hardly under the kind of circumstances that gave him a chance to look around or take in any detail beyond the dungeon.

“Quite,” Draco nods, seeing the _ah_ make its way across Harry's face - “So. Come on, take my arm, it won't bite.”

Harry wonders when he cheered up quite so visibly. Possibly around the same time as yet another bottom had fallen out of his world. He wonders if Draco _knows_ everything that just occurred to him or if he's just happier because he's going home – even briefly.

“Right,” he says, but he still utterly fails to take the offered arm. In the end Draco has to grab his arm and slip it under his. He tries not to think about the warmth of Draco's body against his, the feel of that arm beneath his hand. He focuses only on remembering not to squeeze or stroke – even then he suspects he did something wrong, because Draco arches an eyebrow at him, flickers him the ghost of a wry grin -

“Ready?”

He nods. A second later they are standing in a long corridor completely windowed down the right side with portraits down the left, enormous gilt edged monstrosities all of which look like Malfoys past. Harry is not sure he has ever felt so very judged-and-found-wanting than he feels by the arrogant, supercilious faces on that wall.

“Upper west portrait gallery,” Draco mutters, more or less to himself - “Odd choice. Not where I was thinking, but maybe -”

“Where _were_ you thinking?”

“Never you mind.”

“So _maybe_ what?”

“Well -” Draco takes a deep breath, appears to lock his face tight shut and says, as though he were giving a guided tour - “This is one of the few rooms in the house I don't remember anything terrible happening in. That's all.”

He hardly knows what to say to that. He wonders – unsure if he wants to know – what _terrible_ means in this context. He sees Draco drift towards the window. He's so pale, he notices suddenly, suffering aside, he's just so pale anyway, like a moonbeam, a silvery shadow falling across the floorboards – he looks so small in this house, ghostly almost. Hard to imagine him living here, growing up here, _playing_ here? It hardly seems possible. He finds himself wanting to ask so many things but instead he grabs Draco by the arm and yanks him back -

“Careful! If they see you at the window -” he trails off, shoves a hand in his pocket for the cloak that's always there -

“Here -”

“Why do I want some manky old – oh -” Draco waves the cloak out - “Is this -”

“Yep. Try it. If people notice we're here, they'll go feral in the press.”

“How long have you _had_ this?” Draco's voice implies _without telling me,_ it implies positive affront that Harry ever had anything he did not.

“Jealous, Malfoy? Since first year.”

“ _First year?”_ Draco practically screeches - “Merlin's cat on a bloody bike Potter, no wonder you were always so bloody – _there!_ I always wondered how you got in my space so fucking much – follow me around, did you?”

“Oh, don't flatter yourself.” Harry makes a face because of course he _did_ do that, he can feel himself going embarrassingly red.

“Oh, you _did!”_ Draco practically whoops, Harry hasn't heard that whoop since fifth year, usually it signalled delight at some failure or pratfall of his. Over the last two years he had been almost starting to think it was a tone of voice he missed. He was wrong.

“Just put the bloody thing on and check out the window, Malfoy,” he grumbles - “- and shut up while we're at it.”

“ _No!”_ Draco positively _beams_ as he slips the cloak on, clearly delighting both in it and this new discovery - “ _Hell_ no. Every time! Every time I left the Slytherin common room for a late night – whatever – I end up running into you and – well you know – I'd started to think you just _lurked_ round the common room door all night and stalked me. What _were_ you doing, eh? Lying in bed watching my feet go round on that daft map of yours then sneaking out in this to join me?”

“How did you -” Harry splutters, unable to deny it - “Who told you about the map?”

“Ge-orge!” Draco practically sings; he gives the name two syllables - “We've been talking quite nicely recently, thank you very much. Look at me - _mingling._ What did you do? Lie awake at night and whack off watching the pitter – patter of my little feet, hmmm?”

“Jesus, shut _up_ Malfoy!”

“Oh my dear, sweet fucking -” Draco pushes the hood down, all the better to really stare at him - “You _did?”_

Only how ridiculous Draco's delightedly astounded face looks disembodied can make Harry feel any better about the shade of beetroot he knows he must have gone.

“Check,” he snips, “The bloody window, and shut your actual hole, dickhead.”

Draco is still laughing as he puts the hood back up and when his back is turned Harry cannot help but smile; it feels as though a little bit of ice melts out of his chest at hearing Draco laugh and - at his expense though it may be - he finds himself wanting more than anything to make that happen again and as much as possible.

“Fuck -” Draco says from somewhere near the window, his voice growing tense again - “You were right, there's _hundreds –_ don't they have anywhere better to be? Why do they care?”

“You're hot news,” Harry shrugs apologetically - “It'll blow over. A touch of what it's like to be famous Malfoy – didn't you always want it?”

Draco comes away from the window, he slips the cloak off, hands it back just a little unwillingly. He shudders.

“Yeah, there was a time -” his lip twitches - “I gave up on wanting to be any kind of chosen one just as soon as -”

“As what?” Harry looks at him curiously, but Draco has started walking just a little in front of him as they head down the corridor, keeping his face carefully hidden.

“As soon as I _was_ chosen -” he says softly - “For _something._ It – it wasn't what I thought it'd be.”

Harry resists the urge to say _I could have told you –_ or something in that vein. In fact he hardly dares breathe, for fear it will stop Draco actually talking about this. As it is, Draco stops walking in the doorway between the corridor and the landing and Harry sees the shudder that ripples through him, down his back and making his shoulders twitch. He wants to touch, to run a hand down his spine, but he suspects it would not soothe like he would want it to; but god he wants to kiss the tension out of every line of Malfoy, wants -

“He was here,” Draco says, Harry coming to a halt beside him on the landing, looking down into the front vestibule. He can see Draco's hand, pale against the dark wood bannister, fingers very still and stiff - “When I arrived home that summer – on the _luggage rack -”_ he adds with a hint of spite, side-eyeing Harry who suddenly finds that entire escapade a whole lot less funny than it seemed at the time.

“ _Voldemort,”_ Draco says, and Harry can see his throat move with the effort of retching up the name - “He was right here where we're standing now. He said father was in Azkaban, and -” he stops, swallowing hard - “Can we carry on? I don't think I want to hang around here.”

“Yeah,” Harry nods. “Yeah. Course. Whatever you want.”

Draco looks at him suspiciously.

“Are you being funny?”

“No, I – just trying to be -”

“ _Nice?_ What do you _want_ Potter? Why are you here?”

“I want -” his head is reeling, as though Draco's tiredness, the weary defeat that seeps out of him has sunk into his own bones and he shares it now. There is so much that he wants. He wants to take hold of Draco and hold on to him forever, wants to kiss away a thousand tears and however many more it takes. He wants to make every terrible thing that happened here not have happened, wants to cast a healing spell that will make them all better. Unable to look Draco in the eyes, he's been staring at his lips the whole time he's been thinking this. He wants -

“I want to kiss you,” he says, and in his head it summarises everything else he wants to give, all the help he wants to offer, but out loud it just sounds – incredibly crap and heartless of him.

“Of course you do,” Draco sighs, a full bodied sigh. “You always do, don't you? That's why we never get anything solved. Oh, what _now?”_

_He's right,_ Harry thinks, depressed by it, they might have got so much further so long ago if he had just been able to _talk_ to Draco, actually talk – for more than five minutes, without wanting to kiss him at the very least, without his thoughts racing to wanting him, wanting to touch him, to be close – they were _never_ close enough, ever. Draco could yank out his heart and curl up in the space it had made and it would only just about feel close enough. But instead, he has had to drag his eyes away from those pouting lips, and he's staring at a corner of the foyer over by the pillar remembering, remembering -

“Why _did_ you fail to identify me? You never answered me.”

“Oh,” Draco heaves an overblown sigh - “ _That_ again. Because I was mad in love with you, Potter, is that what you want to hear?”

He gulps. For just a split second his brain did not hear the sarcasm, for just a moment he lets his face betray him that maybe it bloody well was, and in that moment of facial betrayal Draco's eyes go wide at the possibility that his sarcasm might actually have hit home.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he murmurs - “I didn't want you dead, that's all. I didn't want – didn't want anyone dead – or hurt, and I'm -” his eyes skitter across the floor beneath them as though he can still hear the screams - “I'm sorry about what my aunt did to Granger. That was – gross. Sorry,” he says again, mumbling.

“Hardly your fault -” Harry hopes his tone conveys _not any of it,_ but he's not sure it does - “You should tell _her_ though. Hermione's reasonable, she'll appreciate it.”

“Yeah, because _that's_ an easy one to broach.”

“ _Easy._ ” Harry looks at him, wishes he would look back - “Do we ever get _easy_ again?”

Draco looks back at him and his eyes are so big, so searching, a heartbreaking flicker of hope gleaming like a star in their depths -

“ _Should_ we?” he frowns, and Harry was right – it is a little knitted thing between his eyes - “Come on,” Draco adds quickly. “My room. My stuff. Then we'll get out of here.”

He leads the way. He has, Harry discovers, a half wing full of his own rooms; massive, high ceilinged squares that seem so large to him it would be like being outside to have grown up in these rooms.

“Nice,” he raises an eyebrow. “Homely. Very child friendly.”

“Shut up, Potter.” Draco swings open a set of double doors into the bedroom, dominated by a gigantic green and gold draped four poster. Harry finds himself struggling to look at that bed; his stupid brain has to go _there_ instantly.

“I need -” Draco stands in the middle of the room, tapping his fingers nervously against his leg and looking around. He looks frightened, Harry thinks, suddenly, surreally missing his cupboard – it was small and stifling, confining and terrible but he was never _frightened_ there the way Draco looks now.

“- _he_ used to come in here -” Draco sounds as thugh he is talking to himself, and Harry feels awkwardly terrible for hearing his rush of timorous words. “-and the snake. When I was asleep. I'd wake up and there they were, just at the end of the bed – _staring.”_ He shudders enormously. “Just to feel it, I think – the power, to enjoy scaring me. To prove that he _could._ He could have done anything. Not every night. Just _any_ night. Sometimes I'd wake up and she'd be there, sliding up the bed. I can't -” Harry takes a step towards him seeing the tears spring into his eyes - “I want to go back – to the Black House. I can't – how can I ever – Potter?”

“Yes?”

He's closer to Draco than he meant to be, and Draco spins round like a dancer and grabs onto his shoulder as though he might fall, staring into his face with charcoal glimmering eyes -

“ _Kiss me._ You wanted to before. Kiss me _now.”_

“What?” He cannot believe he's hearing his own objection - “Draco it's not – you're not -” he wants to say that just five seconds ago he was on the verge of bursting into tears, but you can't say a thing like that – not to _Draco –_ but can he _kiss him_ like this? It can't be right. He wishes he was capable of moral right here, but if his thoughts are, his body is not, and his hand is on Draco's hip before he knows how it got there.

“ _Kiss me,”_ Draco repeats viciously, lip curling savagely - “If I don't have a good memory of this place I'll never be able to come back here again – _do it.”_

“Are you sure?”

“I am _sure_ I will Crucio you if you make me ask again, Potter. Fucking kiss me _now.”_

Right or wrong, he does, he does, he does.

__x__

**Aaaand next we have a Narcissa chapter back at No.12 - yep that's _before_ you get the rest of what's happening here. Mwa ha ha.**


	9. Narcissa

**9.**

**Narcissa**

“Oh,” she says, about to exit the room as soon as he has walked into it - “I do apologise. I was looking for my son.”

“They are not here,” the girl says, getting up from the desk – Narcissa cannot immediately place her, though she manages not to let it show - “But here. I think they have left a note.” She hands it to Narcissa with careful, confident grace and poise. Narcissa cannot help thinking _what a beautiful girl – just the kind of girl I would have imagined Draco marrying –_ the thought snags hard in her mind, harder than it should, and begins to reel her in with a – _well never mind Draco, if_ I _were free myself –_ before she yanks herself back with a start, recognising the fish hook for what it is.

“Gracious -”she says mildly. “ _Veela?”_

“Only a little,” the woman shrugs one shoulder. “On my grandmother's side. I am Fleur Delacourt-Weasley – Bill's wife?”

“Of course,” she nods, trying desperately to remember which one that is; the Weasley clan all look the same to her.

“Bill?” Fleur presses, insistently - “The attractive one?”

This conversation is testing Narcissa's poise almost unbearably, in a way none of the Weasleys and others in this house manage to. How in the world, she wonders, do the others, without anything like her own strength of mental control, resist the effect this young woman has? How are they not in awe of her incredible elegance and self assurance? For goodness sake, she thought, _she_ was good at these things! She is also struggling because this still doesn't help her pinpoint Bill Weasley from the others. Fleur swears heavily in French – the cursing is surprisingly strong and at least breaks her spell a little -

“The one with the - “ she makes a gesture - “Scars? Sexy scars?”

“Oh.” She wonders how _this_ woman can describe anyone else as _sexy_ when she must see herself in the mirror several times a day, but at least she can nod now in awareness.

“ _Tres bien.”_ Fleur rolls her eyes and curls into the sofa like a Siamese cat, watching Narcissa with an unsettling smile – as though she finds her curious. Narcissa looks down at the letter in her hands -

“ _They?”_ she suddenly remembers - “They who?”

“Harry, I believe,” Fleur shrugs - “And Monsier Malfoy. They have gone home. I believe. I still do not read the language so good.”

_To whoever comes looking for us first –_ Narcissa reads in Harry's rather basic handwriting – _Draco and I have apparated to Malfoy Manor to pick up some of Draco's things. We shouldn't be gone long and will be coming back. We're apparating straight inside to avoid the press but if we're not back in two days, send back-up? Thanks._

_Draco and Harry._

“They went together?” she wonders aloud.

“I do not know,” Fleur does not sound much like she cares either - “I just found the letter. Since I was not looking for either boy I suppose it was not meant for me, so I am only reading it briefly.”

“That's – fair enough.”

Fleur appears to be ignoring her, and starts painting her nails, resting a divine hand on the arm of the sofa.

“Well, it was lovely to meet you, Mrs -”

“Delacour-Weasley,” Fleur nods - “It does not sound a good combination? I think? What do you think?”

“I think perhaps your husband might have changed his name, yes. I hear that happens now.”

“Hmm”.

Since this sounds like the end of the conversation Narcissa nods minutely and makes it to the door before Fleur, blowing on her nails, says loudly -

“They are in love, you know. Personally I think it is very romantic.”

“Excuse me – _who_ are in love?”

“Harry of course,” Fleur tosses her head back like this is obvious. “And your son, Draco. They are beautiful together.”

“I beg your pardon? I -” she stops. She cannot lie – she _can_ of course, better than anyone perhaps in the entire wizarding world, she saved it after all, did she not? With a lie? But she finds herself not wanting to now. She knows what this strange young woman is talking about well enough, is just startled to hear her say it and so plainly. Her rude, abrupt manner of speech would clash with her elegant beauty if the one did not rather explain the other. Clearly this is a lady who has always felt confident enough to speak as she finds – the choice to do so is alien to Narcissa, though the confidence she greatly admires. If only she could find away to give Draco a little of _his_ back, if he ever _really_ had any to begin with. She wonders, these days, how much of his arrogance was ever real and how much a front; she is so skilled at fronts herself she might have imparted more of that skill to him than she ever realised. And then – somewhere in his sixth year, what self assurance he ever had seemed to have been pulled from him as painfully as if it had been an internal organ, only half of him returning to her at the end of the year. She sighs internally – if she thinks too far down this round she will be weeping for these children aloud for the first time.

“You heard me,” the girl repeats - “beautiful. Like sun and moon and they do not even know it.” She splays out her fingers, admiring the shine of varnish in the greenish light.

Narcissa wonders if it's a French thing, the bluntness and manner of speech, but it's true, she has seen it herself – the boys moving so much more in time with each other upon every step than they realise. She wonders who revolves around who.

“They revolve around each other,” Fleur nods, almost making her jump, if she ever did that. “I have seen,” she shrugs.

“You have?”

“In my last year at school, yes, when we were at Hogwarts, the boys, they were fourteen I think. Always they are looking at each other, always – like they are – how do you say? Magnetic? But they do not see it, they only know they must be close and it is making them angry – always so close to fighting, but it is not fighting they would like the most.”

She stops, half breathless with the effort of this speech.

“Well, thank you, I'll – and is it your belief that everyone noticed this – like you have?”

Fleur shrugs.

“Teenagers – mostly they are thinking of themselves, they have so many troubles. Some will see, some will not. Me – I was not connected, I suppose – to these people? So I see. They think I do not but I see.”

“Yes,” Narcissa surveys her with a gaze - “I see that you do.”

“You and I. We are very alike I think. We see but we do not say – and they say beautiful cannot mean clever,” she scoffs. “We will speak again”.

Narcissa frowns, feels _dismissed_ of all things; her mind almost mutters _in my own home_ though she has to remember that it is not as she heads away, note in hand.

-x-

She finds Hermione in the library – _Granger,_ she reminds herself, certain they cannot be on first name terms.

“Mrs Malfoy!” Hermione looks up from where she has been talking to the younger Mr Weasley on the sofa. She looks, Narcissa thinks, though she is not entirely sure – _pleased_ to see her. She does not get that often; it feels – oddly pleasant. “I was just saying I needed to go and find you -”

“Right -” the boy, _Ron –_ she remembers – nods and stands up - “I'll be off then. Let me know what time you want me to tell 'em when you're done?”

“Of course”. He bends down as though about to kiss her on the cheek, seems to remember they're not alone, and kind of just bumps her face with his face instead, both children snorting a little before the girl pushes him tenderly away. He side-eyes her on the way out, as though he does not quite trust her, frowns as though he is trying to work it out, and is gone. Perhaps Hermione sees her frown a little because she stands up, holding her hands in front of her awkwardly -

“You have to forgive Ron,” she nods - “He still doesn't really trust -”

“Me. Any of us. I understand.”

“I've decided that the house system fosters mistrust and enmity. Actually, I've written a letter to Professor McGonagall about it, suggesting they overhaul the entire system before the next term – if there _is_ a next term, of course. Too many of us still have these ridiculous prejudices towards other Houses – especially Slytherins – personally, I'm of the opinion – I'm sorry – you're not here to discuss my opinions on Hogwarts sanctioned prejudice.”

“No,” Narcissa looks at her with something like amusement - “I'm not. Though I suspect you're right. Have you seen this?” She hands Hermione the note.

“Harry and Draco?” she says within half a minute, reading with the speed of someone who only ever stops reading to write - “How long have they been gone?”

“I believe since shortly after breakfast. Not long, I am aware, but I felt it was worth you knowing.”

“Does this mean they're – getting on? I thought -” she flaps a hand - “Well we heard them after breakfast, raising voices in the hallway, and I think – I think -”

“Yes?”

“I think Draco punched Harry,” she sighs. “I don't suppose that means that much for them – they do that a lot. It sounded like they were – um -” she goes a little red - “ _\- apologising_ almost straight away after. If you know what I mean.”

“Hmm,” she nods. _Apologising_ means _kissing,_ clearly, though she is far too delicate to say this out loud - “Do you think – may I presume to ask if you think we should do anything?”

She feels humbled, asking this girl's advice, but it occurs to her that pragmatism suggests she take it. The girl is clever, clear headed – more or less -and she knows Potter. However well she herself is able to appear detached, she is far too biased to consider both boys dispassionately. There are cracks in her heart she can only stitch together with will power and self control, stitches which strain every time her baby shivers and shakes on her with nightmares. She is holding so much of his grief inside her chest there is no room to be as objective as she would like. It occurs to her that this girl, however well balanced she appears, can only be suppressing griefs of her own in whichever way she does it, and it occurs to her like a sudden revelation what griefs the greatest of those must be. She has to test to see if she is correct.

“I think -” Hermione says carefully - “We should – for the minute at least – do as they say and leave them to it. Going back – _there_ I mean – there's going to be a lot of memories – none of them easy -” she breaks off for a moment, a vaguely distant, haunted look in her eyes, then shakes herself a little.

“Maybe it's best to let them help each other through that?”

“Of course. Thank you. Understand, I -” to her surprise she sits down – it is so unlike her to have her head lower than anyone else in the room, let alone – no, she has to stop thinking _let alone_ thoughts about this girl. Has to and will. Thankfully the girl takes the other side of the sofa - “I hear my son cry out so often at night. I can feel how scared he was so many times without being able to undo those things or – or apologise -”

“Apologise?”

“We all need to apologise, Miss Granger – all of my generation to all of yours – don't you -” if she had been anyone else she would have clasped the girl's hand. Instead she extends one hand a fraction and lets it hang - “Don't you miss _your_ parents?”

The audible gasp of shock at the question tells her yes, she _was_ right.

“They don't -” her chest heaves a little, like she might cry - “They don't miss _me,”_ she says with a pointed look that makes it clear she is not being self pitying, and Narcissa realises instantly what she must have done.

“That is not quite what I asked,” she says, more gently than she has ever heard herself speak before, to anyone outside family - “Forgive me – Hermione – I did not mean to pry – or cause distress – I never had a daughter -”

Hermione smiles faintly through the tears that are not there but hide behind her eyes, Narcissa can see it in the way she blinks -

“Are you going to tell me you always wanted one? And one like me?”

“No. I didn't always want one. I am more than happy with the child I have. He is and always will be perfect. But yes, I think she would be like you. I would be proud – to have you for a daughter, and so would your parents. Think about it, and we'll speak of it no more unless you wish. And now I believe you had something to tell me?”

“Yes,” Hermione nods quickly, gratitude leaping in her eyes. “Yes, I was just telling Ron, I've been on the 'phone – you – I don't mean to be rude, but you know what that is?”

“Mr Weasley has explained the concept, yes”. He had even shown her the one in the house and how to use it. It was shocking, she realised, how much the wizardign world had to learn, not to mention dizzying how marvellous muggle things could be. She is learning new respect faster than she ever imagined possible.

“Good, so I was talking to some people and basically – long story short – Andromeda's bringing Teddy tomorrow, and she's said she'll see you if you'll see her.”

The exhalation of breath that comes out of Narcissa has to be the shakiest she has expressed in a very long time.

“You told her? What I said? And more, I suspect.”

“Yes. She – well she didn't want to at first – but I told her how much you'd, well, changed and she said she'd see you, and she'd like to meet Draco – but she won't see Lucius; um – sorry.”

“Don't apologise -” Narcissa makes a minute brushing gesture and sighs. “We are all sorry about Lucius.” She does not say that she has tried speaking to her husband so many times over the past few days, but that he reacts like a man in another world, one he does not know his way around. He has said he does not know the world he finds himself in, that he cannot keep up with it. Twenty times a day he says _Cissy help me, Cissy explain,_ and she tries, and she does, but still he looks lost. It's not his world now, and she does not know if she _can_ explain to him that this might be a good thing. She has no intention of giving up, but she would not have even asked his thoughts on her sister now, let alone ask if he would meet with her as she will. She is nervous about the new world herself but she has never in her life let nerves stop her. That's why she's holding the family together, gripping it like sand beneath her fingers.

“Luna's coming too,” Hermione adds.

“Luna? Miss Lovegood?” she closes her eyes briefly. Nothing here is easy, nothing at all. How to atone; she who never felt such a need in her life?

“She wants to see Draco,” Hermione shrugs - “She sounded really keen actually. Don't worry -”

“I wasn't -” she begins to lie, then stops. Hermione raises an eyebrow at her and she wonders how she could have lied bare faced to Voldemort and not to a teenage girl.

“Don't worry about Luna,” Hermione repeats - “I've never met anyone as forgiving or – or – odd. If she says anything awkward, well, she – does that to us all. That's just Luna.”

Narcissa finds herself smiling. It feels like it has been a long time since she did that.

“Miss Granger – may I call you Hermione?”

“Ye-es -” she looks thoughtful. “But if it's all the same to you, I'll still call you Mrs Malfoy – or – or – Draco's Mum”.

For a curious little butterfly of a second both ladies flutter on the edge of a laugh.

“Hermione – do you plan to fix _everyone_ in this whole house?”

“Yes,” she nods very briskly. “Yes that's absolutely what I'm going to do.”

“Then please – one thing?” she stands up to go and the last thing she says, hand on the door frame - “Don't forget _anyone._ Understand?”

The look she gives Hermione takes in the entire girl, head to toe without her eyes really even moving, and she knows, looking at her, that Hermione has garnered from that look _exactly_ what Narcissa means.

___x___

**I love Fleur, I can't believe it's taken me this long to bring her into this. I'm not writing the accent the way JK does because I hate that a lot (I have a whole chain of reasoning/ rant in my head about hating that but I'll restrain myself here lol). She'll actually be getting her own chapter later once I've gone back to me boys for a bit :-)**


	10. Harry/ Draco

**10.**

**Harry/Draco**

“I want -” Draco says, breathless, body pressed against Harry's like he's incapable of moving away, eyes half closed in the bliss of kissing, of being close, of feeling their cocks brush together, press together, this ecstasy of frustration making them rock against each other as though they might with one movement fall right inside one another's skin and it would be good, it would be so perfect, such undreamt of completeness.

“Brat -” Harry swallows hard. “Did nobody ever tell you that _I want_ doesn't get?”

“No.” Draco's lip curls in scorn and Harry wants to kiss it, wants to burn in the flash of gunpowder that glints in those silver eyes - “What a stupid, pedestrian phrase. Why would I ever -”

“Shut up Malfoy -” it comes out aggressive, almost angry, but it isn't anger, just lust, just need, just the fire rushing out of the chest and into Draco's mouth when Harry kisses him again, savage and demanding and needy. Draco's kiss back is as brutal a fight; and neither will ever win, he realises – both of them get it – almost at once in this kiss – that it never _was_ about winning, for all they have spent six years striving for dominance – it never could lead to anything other than mutual loss or gain. Draco rips away -

“I was _talking -”_

“I was _kissing -”_

“Fuck me, you prick.”

“Excuse me?”

“Deaf, Potter? I want you to fuck me. Now. Here. Give. Give me _everything.”_

“Greedy -” Harry's hand on his hip, under his shirt, on his chest, another in the small of his back yanking him tight against him, they're both strong, both fierce, arrogance and hunger and years of flying and fighting making them hard and deadly in tension and strength - “bossy -” he yanks Draco against him, like a push but towards him, not away from him - “Bastard,” he finishes, cupping Draco's cock through his trousers and almost making him shriek.

“Fuck you.”

“ _Not_ what you just said.”

“Shut up, Potter – fuck's sake, just -”

Ah god, his head spins still, so unsure whether or not he should, trying desperately with every last ounce of his resolve to analyse Draco's reasons for asking this now and _here,_ trying to come to a quick decision as to if they're the _right_ reasons, and he needs to care more but he _can't,_ he just can't think at all, not with Draco looking at him like that, steel gleaming in his eyes as he yanks his shirt off as though the thing offends him. He can't _think –_ nobody should be expected to even try, not with Draco stood in front of him, looking at him like _that,_ looking like that too and asking him to fuck him. He's only human, and he's wanted this for so long. He lunges in, shoving Draco back against that ridiculously over sized bed and pushing him back onto it.

To Draco, it feels as though it has so often felt, on the verge of a fight; nostrils flaring readying to expell rage like a dragon breathing out smoke. He can feel the hardness in every angle of himself, knows that if Potter does not get his hands on him _now_ that hardness will have to be harshness, that he could only lash out and hurt, be a weapon, a knife's edge, cutting and caustic as he has so often been. It is an easy default away from pain. He knows the moron's contemplating the bloody moral highground or something, and _fuck him, seriously fuck him –_ he hates him, he despises him, wants him, needs him and if that's not enough he does not know what is. Besides it's not _all,_ anyway, is it? He ignores the voice in his head which asks him this. Thankfully the idiot moves in at him and when he falls back on the bed it is breathlessly, his skin drinking in the way Harry's eyes eat him up – and he had been so afraid of being eaten before. He had been afraid to even eat – to taste – but these kisses make him angry, ravenous, reaching for more with teeth and tongue and Harry has him pinned down like prey, pushing against him, Draco's wrists in hands that feel like they could break him any minute. The grip hurts just enough to be good and he snarls and the curl of his own lip feels good as well, Harry's lips chasing down his sneer.

“Hurts -” he whispers appreciatively - “Yes, hate me.”

“I do.”

“Hurt me.”

“I will.”

“Want me.”

“I do – I -”

“Yes tell me, tell me you want me -”

Draco cannot control the jerk of his hips when he says it, the rub of their cocks so sweet, delicious and nowhere near enough, only rendering him weak enough to hear himself voice these silent prayers of so many years out loud.

“I do – I want you -” Harry groans from how true it is, face in Draco's neck, trying to kiss his way across every inch of skin - “I want you. I want you _so_ much -” his words feel inadequate to his own ears, nowhere near enough to demonstrate a tenth of the the tight heat of wanting that coils in his chest, running down every nerve of him, deep beneath his skin, in the places Draco has _always_ been, running through him like a fire; but it seems to work for Draco, who makes the choked sound of a stifled whimper and clutches at his arm, his hip, his back, wherever he can reach, a kind of starved frenzy in his eyes -

“Tell me how much – Potter -” he swallows heavily on the name, too intimate and not enough all at once - “Tell me -”

“So much – Draco I – so much – for so long – please I can't – not gonna last I – oh fuck -”

Draco half wants to laugh, but all that comes out is a snorted _heh_ sound as he pushes upwards, yanking Harry towards him by the belt, grinding their cocks together through infuriating fabric, Harry making a _gnhh_ sound that should not have been even faintly sexy but shoots an arrow of pleasure through Draco's chest as Harry comes hard and helpess, grinding down on him until Draco can feel the damp of it seeping through the layers and Harry wriggles out of his clothes in disgust.

“Um -” he says, wincing at himself, half on, half off of Draco, unsure if he is still allowed to proceed, realising in that moment of uncertainty that he wants to, to kiss him, touch him, give him so much more than this aching premature ecstasy – Can I – sorry, that was -”

“ _Hot -”_ Draco reaches for him with wretchedly needy arms, shockingly afraid of his backing off now - “Kiss me. Touch me – don't stop until you want me again -”

“Again? I don't think I stopped.”

“So kiss me”.

Even if he did not look like _that,_ even if he was not reaching for Harry like a child grasping for a toy, breath takingly sweet, almost innocent even alongside such beautiful arousal – his voice would have killed Harry before it let him do anything other than what Draco wanted. He finds himself captivated by the bossiness of it, tingling electrically at the sublime arrogance, the certainty in that voice of getting what it wants – at the same time, he can hear a layer underneath that assuredness, a note that is more like a plea, a fragile neediness trapped in Draco's chest. It occurs to him that he is owned by that voice, body and soul and that he _wants_ to be, he always has. He closes his eyes in bliss as they kiss face to face, his hands on Draco - hips and arms and holding onto his shoulders - who arches into every touch with greedy ferocity and jerking hips and it is not nearly as long of this as he has imagined before he's hard as hell for him again and Draco repeats the order -

“Fuck me.”

It's such a heady combination of demanding and needy that Harry can hardly function, hardly even remind himself that he's never done this before, though he has imagined it so many times that moving into position feels more like a memory.

“I don't know -” he begins apologetically, though his cock apparantly does and is pressing itself against Draco's opening without knowing what's best for it. Draco gives an impatient groan and leans half over the edge of the bed to rummage in a bedside drawer, wondering if enough impatience and technically knowing what to do will make up for his having no more of a clue than Harry. He twists round to hand Harry the bottle -

“Here -” he orders - “Use it. Fingers first or I will fucking punch you.”

“Gosh -” Harry trickles the liquid onto his fingers - “You're so romantic.”

“Shut the fuck up and -” Draco begins, but it turns into a keening breathy wail as Harry pushes his slick fingers into him tentatively, first one and then after a while two, head reeling with the knowledge that he is _inside_ Draco, cock screaming at him to be next, trying not to imagine how that hot tightness will feel too much or he fears he might never make it in. He can see Draco's hands clench the sheets, knuckles white, his back arched, head dipped down, every sharp line of him taut with effort and pleasure and pain. A crazy, self destructive urge to tell him he loves him dives into his head so he swears instead, knowing that those words have the power to ruin everything right now.

“Fuck _yes -”_ Draco echoes, shuddering, ready and unprepared all at once, desperation and innocence fighting inside him – he could _never_ be ready for this but he _has_ been for so long, needs it beyond the telling of it - “Yes fuck, get in me.”

“Are you -”

“Will you fucking _do it?”_

Harry does not need to be asked three times; he pushes his cock slowly home, Draco's body rocking beneath him, pushing back and pulling away over and over, unable to decide what it wants between the pain and the need to be filled. Both boys hold still, panting for several long moments with Harry buried balls deep inside Draco, tensing every muscle he has not to come straight away, loving the feel of it, getting used to the feel of it, waiting until Draco starts to push back against him again to move inside him. He bites his lip to pieces to keep from roaring, but Draco – well, he always knew he'd be mouthy but even then he hadn't been prepared for the absolute torrent of mingled screams and orders and swear words that stream from him, like he cannot stop himself. _Yes, fuck fuck fuck oh yes fuck please don't stop, just like that oh god oh god sweet fuck yes harder, ruin me, fuck me you bastard, just like that fuck yes -_ until Harry realises that taking and being taken are nowhere near the clear cut opposites he had imagined them to be and he is no longer sure which of them is doing which, but it doesn't matter, he's fucking Draco, and it is _everything_ and Draco's demanding _more_ always _more – Potter, give me everything, hate me, want me, fuck me, own me, destroy me –_ and for the first time he's known him he is not too proud to say _please –_ over and over again, pleading and ordering and controlling and pushy as absolute fuck. Harry cannot see it but he suspects Draco is half crying and when he starts pushing against the mattress he reaches under his body and takes hold of his cock for him and he's pushing into Harry's hand savagely and he _does_ give him everything, he would have without being asked, so much hunger and anger and rage and guilt and grief and regret, fucking them out as hard as he can, pouring out every repressed feeling he has bottled up for the past two years wondering if he can keep at least _this_ one wonderful thing forever.

Draco cries out and it shatters the room until Harry knows – if he did not before – that he does not have to stay quiet, and he can hear him self growling like a monster gone feral in the room, his hand is wet where Draco is thrusting into it, shaking and coming and crying and shuddering under him and he's breaking apart, bursting from the woods where he's gone feral and emptying himself into Draco's body half howling, half snarling for the exquisite brilliance of it.

After all the noise he finds himself crying, silently, shaking and there's Draco, shaking beneath him and he moves carefully off him and to one side, but never letting go, clutching on to him as she weeps in a continued outpouring of release, enjoying the feel of crying, and Draco clings back, trembling, burying their faces in each other and tangling up their limbs into something nobody could hope to separate.

Shipwrecked survivors, they cling to each other as though the other were a life raft, shaking with the waves that subside in the wreckage all around them.

__x__

**I had to restart this in my head about ten times before actually write it cause I could not for the life of me work out whose POV I wanted it to be from before realising I wanted it both - so I just wrote both. So there. :-)**

**And yes, Draco is the world's pushiest bottom and nobody can tell me otherwise :-)**


	11. Draco

**11.**

**Draco**

He hadn't meant to fall asleep but he wakes up, disoriented at first, gathering first that this is _his_ bed – his old one – the realisation makes him want to jump up, startled, shocked at himself for daring to fall asleep _here,_ eyes darting round the room for danger. The second thing – the thing that stops him starting up – is the weight against him, an arm draped heavily across him, legs tangled up with his own. For a moment he loses track of whose limbs are whose, and yes, of where he ends and Harry begins.

He wonders what time it is. Remembers the positive fucking encampment just outside the window. Thinks about what happened, what happened here, just a few hours – or however long – ago. Thank god, he thinks, he gets to think about that rather than everything else that happened here. It was true what he said before – he never could have slept here again if those memories were the last he had of this place. Now it feels just a little bit like something magical has happened. He also wonders if it should have happened; what it means, if it has to mean anything, he wonders what he feels and _that_ he does not want to probe further, not yet. He thinks it looks dark outside the window which means they've slept quite a few hours – but it felt _good –_ he stretches, yawns – thinks again how good the sleep felt – it's the first time – he realises with a shock – the first time he has slept without nightmares since he can remember. What a fucking cliché. He frowns, looks sideways – Potter – _Potter again now is it? -_ looks so different in his sleep, even still teasing worry lines between his eyes he looks peaceful – so much more peaceful than he has done in so long that Draco realises only now how constantly tense – stressed – angry or whatever it is – he has always been – is, he's not sure. It feels strange to care about somebody else, to even notice, realise that they might be struggling too; he does not like it, sets his jaw and clenches his fists against the feelings that coil up hotly in his chest and make him want to panic. He fights it down and disentangles himself, slipping out of bed and reaching for his clothes. He finds his wand and casts a quick lumos against the gathering dusk – good to have it in his hand again; he feels as though it _likes_ lumos being the first spell he has cast with it in so long – he still has to ask about this, he thinks. He doesn't want to.

“Whateryoudoing?” a sleepy voice mumbles.

“We should get going,” he replies, stiffly, buttoning up his shirt, looking back over his shoulder to the bed. Harry is blinking in sleepy befuddlement, squinting at the light, adjusting to the shadows, smiling cautiously at Draco, looking at him – oh looking at him with eyes full of fire and light, in a way he would like to be looked at forever. He stands up a little straighter, feeling beautiful, then his chest does that thing again and he swallows down the wash of warmth and happiness.

“Are you alright?” Harry – _Potter_ frowns now, swinging himself out of the bed and reaching for Draco. Draco closes his eyes – he looks beautiful and needy and he _wants_ him – it's all so bloody plain on his idiot honest open face and he _can't._ It would be so easy to go to him, to sink back into that bed with its memories now that tingle him delightfully and just carry on in this state of pleasure and calm broken only by passion. He swears internally – _passion?_ Is that how it is?

“Fine.”

“No, there's something -” he's on his feet now, and Draco takes a steady step back away from those arms that he could sink into so blissfully, fear reaching out with bony arms between his ribs.

“It's nothing. It's late, that's all. It's been fun but we should get back.”

“ _Fun?”_ Potter's glaring at him now and the fear abates a little - “I thought – stupid of me, but I thought -” a twitch of his lips and a shadow across the face tells Draco again how stupid Potter clearly thinks it was - “I thought you – I thought you cared -”

He forces a derisive noise up from a pit of memory from which derision used to come naturally.

“I thought you knew me better than that,” he sneers; it slithers through his chest like a lie - “I can't _care Potter –_ it -” he runs out of lies - “It hurts too much,” he mutters.

  
  


“I said that once -” Potter reaches out a hand again, Draco avoids it. “Someone told me it made you strong – caring that is – friendship and love – they give you something to fight for, make you stronger, not weaker.”

  
  


“Yeah well. Someone told _me_ they make you weaker – hold you back. If you don't come with me I'm going without you – and for Merlin's sake put some fucking clothes on.”

  
  


For a brief, painful moment, he relishes the look of hurt and anger that flashes across Harry's face before he turns away in silence to rummage on the floor. Draco forces himself to ignore him as he pulls a bag out from under the bed and starts filling it with things from his wardrobes – most of the contents of his wardrobes, in fact – the old extendable charms on these bags hold fast – then books, and for some reason his fifth year school bag, _just in case,_ his mind whispers, though he's not entirely sure in case of what. He wonders why he has to be so mean – can see the question etched in Harry's eyes as he watches him, not as as surreptitiously as he thinks he does. But it feels like he _does_ have to – like if he gives in and lets himself be soft now he'll be vulnerable to anything that tries to break him and there could still be so many things. It was too difficult working for too long on making himself hard to just soften straight away. He might cry if he does and that's unacceptable – certainly in the presence of anyone who isn't his mother. Anyone else will just laugh at him if he cries, mock him, remind him how weak he is, what a pathetic failure, throw in a _Crucio_ just for good measure. His face twists in defiance, mind shouting that _no_ that's not going to happen, never again. He's terrible at pain and too easily convinced of his own uselessness and trying to ignore how hard they already cried on each other – but that was different. Of course.

But – but it's tempting, and his chest hurts for the way his heart fights back against the thoughts. He can't look at Potter, look at the bed – he has to stop himself when he realises _I can come back here now, this room feels good again –_ stares determinedly at nothing in the direction of the window, thinks of all the people outside, worthless wretched _common_ people and lets himself sneer, lip curling comfortingly. Staring at nothing is good, turning himself off is good, just like his mother taught him, and aunt Bella; _not_ feeling, not feeling is the only way.

“Ready?”

  
  


He exhales deeply. Potter's voice sounds cold, hard again and he can turn around without being too afraid of him, and _yes_ he's looking at Draco like he hates him and that's _fine._ Of course Potter hates him, he does everything he can to make himself hateable. So it's good, it's perfect, exactly what he wants.

  
  


“Ready,” he nods curtly.

  
  


__x__

**So I made this chapter a short one because Draco decided to be more of a nob than I meant him to be - so much so that I already had to re-plan the next few chapters - so I made the chapter shortish before he could do any _more_ damage. :-P Hermione gets the next one so she can do something sensible with it :-)**


	12. Hermione

  
  


**12.**

**Hermione**

  
  


The first thing she realises, when Harry and Draco apparate in, is that they have almost certainly had sex. The second thing is that – for reasons she cannot grasp, considering point one – they aren't speaking to each other.

  
  


“Ah,” she says, irrespective of both points - “There you are.”

  
  


“You got the note?” Harry asks.

  
  


“Yes – did you -”

  
  


“Not now Hermione,” Harry snaps, and leaves the room almost as quickly walking as he apparated in, leaving her and Draco staring at each other awkwardly.

  
  


“What happened?” she finds herself asking.

  
  


“Went to get stuff.” Draco shrugs one shoulder, indicating the bag - “Got stuff.”

  
  


“Yes but -”

  
  


“But _what_ Granger?” Draco's tone is hostile enough that she decides not to dare _that_ line of questioning after all, but weary enough that she changes tack instead of just giving up.

  
  


“Your mother was looking for you.”

  
  


“For a purpose or just -”

  
  


“No I think she just -” Draco says out loud, “- worries about me,” at the same time as she says “- worries about you,” and they raise eyebrows at each other for a second and almost smile. Draco dumps the shoulder bag and sits down in the desk chair with a sigh -

  
  


“This your spot?” he asks, carelessly.

  
  


“I mean – yes – but don't worry about it.”

  
  


“Wasn't worried, Granger.”

  
  


She perches on the edge of the sofa arm, realising for the first time that they have never actually _had_ a conversation beyond insults, thinking about Narcissa and how much she cares about him, wondering if it's the result of personality traits she never noticed, or just a thing that mothers do. She thinks reluctantly – but it creeps in anyway – about her own mother, and if what she did to her was fair, even if she did write down a list of justifiable reasons for her choices. Draco rests one pointy elbow on the desk, head held in one hand, slumped heavily. He looks so tired, she thinks; she wonders sometimes at her own capacity for pity – she wonders if it's a good thing to feel or maybe a little bit patronising. She supposes she might think too much.

  
  


After what seems like an age, Draco looks back at her.

  
  


“Oh, you're still here.”

  
  


“ _You're_ still here, too.”

  
  


“You – you've been talking with mother a lot, haven't you? I've noticed.”

  
  


“She's helping me research the history of the house. The books didn't like me at first because I'm not – well, you know – and in return I'm -” she realises that now is not even faintly the time to say what she's trying – possibly unsuccesfully – to help Narcissa with in return. Luckily Draco does not really seem to care.

  
  


“Look -” he says suddenly, blurting it out stiffly and awkwardly - “I'm sorry about what happened to you – when you were at the manor. I – I would not have had that happen. Aunt Bella was a fucking nutter, and I – well like I say I'm -”

  
  


“It's -” she finds herself unable to say _alright_ even to make him feel better. Her arm itches. He stares at her when she reaches a hand to it and she drops it - “I'm sorry about punching you.”

  
  


“It was fair -” he waves it away airily - “Hardly comparable. We were kids. It was – god, it was a million years ago.”

  
  


“Yes,” she frowns - “ _fuck –_ it really was, wasn't it?”

  
  


Draco snorts.

  
  


“Never thought I'd hear you say that.”

  
  


“What? Agreeing with you? Yes it is a bit -”

  
  


“No, you idiot mu - ” she sees him rapidly discard both the things he clearly thinks of calling her -

“ _Fuck,”_ he half smirks. She makes a _pfft_ of a laugh.

  
  


“So -” she stands up and nods - “I'm going to bed. I told your mother – and alright, so your aunt Andromeda's visiting tomorrow, and you can see her if you want, she's agreeable either way. You're mother's going to, and – well it's up to you, alright?”

  
  


She makes a judgement call from Draco's face that he has _not_ entirely taken this in and plunges on bravely, deciding to dare this one after all -

  
  


“If I was going to ask – and I can not, if you like – what's up with Harry – will I regret it?”

  
  


“Ugh -” Draco drags both hands down his face, as though ironing it out. “My fault. Obviously. I -” he makes an expression and heaves a sigh that says he only just realised this part - “I fucked up.” He sags - “I should -”

  
  


“No,” she shakes her head. “Don't. If I know Harry – and we _did_ share a smallish tent for most of a year – if he's in a mood, better leave him 'til tomorrow. He can be a git when he's angry.”

  
  


“Yeah,” Draco shrugs, re-shouldering the bag - “Same.”

  
  


“Promise you.” Hermione nods - “Just tell _him_ that tomorrow and it'll be okay. He -” she stops herself from talking with an actual hand to her mouth. She had been about to say _loves you._

  
  


Draco makes a grunting sound in agreement and is halfway out into the corridor before calling back -

  
  


“Oi! Granger! Does that mean tell him _I'm_ a git or _he's_ a git?”

  
  


Hermione rolls her eyes -

  
  


“Both if necessary, I presume,” she yells - “Good night Malfoy.”

  
  


“'Night, Granger.”

  
  


She goes to her own room smiling. That night she dreams of Australia and two people who do not know her welcoming her all the same before putting her in a paddock with the pet kangaroos. Eventually the kangaroos start kicking her and she wakes up grunting to find Ron poking her and telling her there's someone at the door.

  
  


“-and of course it didn't occur to you that _you_ could actually _answer_ a door did it, Ronald?”

  
  


“Yeah but – it's for you though, isn't it? 'Sides, I'm in my 'jamas.”

  
  


“Whereas I sleep in my clothes, obviously.” She sighs and throws a dressing gown on and by the time she reaches the front door Narcissa is already letting in a woman who for a brief moment makes her blood run cold and she has to force herself not to run away panicking; Ron grips her arm with protective tightness.

  
  


“Narcissa,” the lady says.

  
  


“Andromeda.”

  
  


“Blimey!” Ron blurts - “You look just like -”

  
  


Andromeda notices them for the first time; a look of sharp irritability crosses her face before she says -

  
  


“Yes, I get that a lot -” turns to Hermione, and nods - “Miss Granger?”

  
  


“Mrs Tonks.” She sees Andromeda glance at her sister as though seeking a reaction. To her relief Narcissa makes none.

  
  


“Hermione, would you -” Narcissa draws herself up - “If it's alright with my sister, would you join us in the drawing room? Mr Weasley, would you be so kind as to fetch us tea?”

  
  


“I'm not the bloody -”

  
  


“Oh be quiet and fetch tea, Ron!” Hermione pushes him, but she smiles as he goes and shrugs apologetically at Andromeda - “You'll have to forgive him, he's a bit slow -” she leads the way into the small drawing room and opens the curtains. The room lets in the sunlight as though it has been starved of it too long, the weak watery light illuminating the gold in the furnishings and sloshing across the floorboards. The sisters sit down in facing armchairs, Hermione perching herself discreetly on the edge of a chaise longue.

  
  


“I'm so sorry for your loss, Mrs Tonks,” she says when neither of them speak for too long.

  
  


“Thank you, Miss Granger.”

  
  


“Yes – my condolences.” Narcissa speaks as though every syllable comes with difficulty.

  
  


“Don't say it if you don't mean it, Narcissa!” Andromeda snaps.

  
  


“When have you ever known me to say anything I do not mean?”

  
  


“Well -” she gives that one thought and then grins - “I did hear – _Potter's dead,_ perhaps?”

  
  


“Actually all I said was _dead._ But I believe it was a lie for which we can all be grateful. Is that -” Almost nervously, she indicates the quiet bundle in her sister's arms.

  
  


“Teddy yes, there was nobody I could leave him with, and I thought – perhaps his godfather might like to meet him too – and his cousin.”

  
  


“Harry and Draco are – still asleep,” Hermione finds herself apologising for them, despite it's being nine in the morning, ergo at least three hours before Draco usually emerges and fairly early for Harry - “Ah, here's Ron with tea!”

  
  


It feels like a relief to have something to say and then something to do as she pours tea, glaring at Ron as he mumbles something about going to wake Harry and retreats. She makes an internal memo to take him to task later for leaving her here as lone mediator.

  
  


For another over long moment they sip tea in silence. This time Hermione determines not to break it, forcing them to do some of the work. She takes Teddy so that Andromeda can hold her tea cup.

  
  


“Can we expect your husband's presence?” Andromeda finally asks with faint shrill.

  
  


“Rarely these days, I'm afraid,” Narcissa thins her lips.

  
  


“I would say something regarding our mutual loss but I'm afraid I don't feel it.”

  
  


“No.” Narcissa looks her in the eye for the first time - “No, neither do I.”

  
  


“Really?” Andromeda's voice is less challenging than before - “I thought you two were always close.”

  
  


“I found it best to give that impression, yes. Bella was – she was -”

  
  


“Yes, it is hard to find words, isn't it?”

  
  


“Fanatical. Misguided. Completely and utterly -”

  
  


“Batshit crazy?”

  
  


Narcissa inclines her head and hides an almost-smile.

  
  


“So why on earth did you -?”

  
  


“I'd already lost one sister. I could not bear to lose another.” Narcissa says it almost without emotion but Hermione notices Andromeda's eyebrows raise in surprise - “Until I could. We had – not agreed on a vital point- perhaps more than one.”

  
  


“Which points may I ask?”

  
  


“Bella told me – and these are close to her words- that she would gladly have sacrificed any children she ever had to the service of the Dark Lord. I do not think she approved that I was not ready to sacrifice even the one that I had.”

  
  


“Yes, that sounds like her.”

  
  


“Actually,” Narcissa puts her teacup and saucer down delicately on the coffee table - “I hexed her for it.”

  
  


“Did you?” Andromeda's eyes betray delight - “I would have liked to see that. But your son – Draco – is he -”

  
  


“Alright? I don't know -” for the first time her face quivers; her chin wobbles, and she glances at Hermione who scrunches back a _no not really_ face in reply - “I don't know. Are any of the children alright? Can we really expect them to be?”

  
  


“Sister _-”_ Andromeda reaches suddenly and grasps Narcissa's hand - “Do you know? I don't think I've seen you make an expression since you were twelve?”

  
  


“It does happen.” Narcissa wipes one finger under her eye but she keeps her other hand in Andromeda's grasp - “Look, I understand,” she says eventually. “I do not expect you to forgive me – there's so much that has happened, so much still happening – but we are not who we once were – any of us, and perhaps with time you and I could be – something like sisters again?”

  
  


“To be honest -” Andromeda searches her sister's face intently, and Hermione can see Narcissa doing the same, both of them trying to read each other, to know them like they think they should - “I thought you would expect _me_ to be the one to apologise. I think perhaps there is less work to do here than I had thought before I came?”

  
  


“I hope so.”

  
  


“There is one thing though – one thing I would really love to know.”

  
  


“Of course.”

  
  


“Lucius. Why in the world did you marry _him?”_

  
  


“Honestly?”

  
  


There is a far away look in Narcissa's eyes, the gaze of looking back over an ocean of time and reasoning. Andromeda nods -

  
  


“Because he was really, _really –_ attractive.” The women stare at each other for a while, Andromeda clearly wondering if this is all of the truth or if by some miracle her sister is joking with her. She sees enough in Narcissa's face to answer her the former and she bursts out laughing.

“I don't believe – no I _do –_ actually I – really? Really, Cissy, I was expecting something so much more complicated.”

  
  


“I mean – an air of elegance, and his striking me as easily controlled were not irrelevant points in the decision to actually marry, but in the initial stages -”

  
  


Andromeda laughs so hard it drowns her out until eventually she has to smile too.

  
  


“Yes, that's like you dear. It was the same with Ted and I – _in the initial stages_ as you say -”

  
  


Whatever it is they say next is drowned out by a knock on the front door and Hermione excuses herself to answer it, looking back curiously over her shoulder as she goes. It's Luna.

  
  


“I do hope I'm not late or interrupting -”

  
  


“Actually -” Hermione whispers as she lets her in and closes the door. “Ron charmingly abandoned me to mediate on a Black family reunion. It's utterly awkward and thank god you're here.”

  
  


“A constellation and a flower -” Luna nods with her head cocked to one side - “How's it going?”

  
  


“They're – um – hugging now – actually, it's incredibly awkward.”

  
  


“What's that?” Luna nods at the bundle in Hermione's arms.

  
  


“This is Teddy, um – it's a baby?” She wonders what it is about Luna that makes her start stating the unnecessarily obvious. Possibly an idea that Luna might actually not know.

  
  


“What does it do?”

  
  


“I suppose – not much – do you want to hold him?”

  
  


She wonders at the sensibility of handing Teddy over to Luna but she shrugs and risks it anyway as they wander through into the kitchen.

  
  


“Do you think he can speak to ladybirds?” Luna tickles Teddy gently. “How's Harry? Is that jelly?”

  
  


“Um – uncertain? We'll come back to that one, and yes it's orange, left over from yesterday but should be still good? - in that order.”

  
  


“Hmm. I think I'll stay a while, until he works it out. Could you pass me the spoon, please?”

  
  


Hermione's forehead knits as she looks towards the kitchen wall clock and she wonders if it really _can_ be only nine in the morning.

  
  


__x__

  
**Fleur chapter next and then Luna woohoo! Let's see if our girls cant knock some sense into the boys! Excuse the delay in this update, work was crazy but I'm off for a week now so the next one should be sooner! :-)**


	13. Fleur

  
  


**13.**

**Fleur**

  
  


The least human thing about Fleur, or so Bill has always said, is her abilty to get up bright and alert first thing in the morning. In fact, she does not seem to experience any of a normal person's transitional period between sleeping and waking. She simply wakes, blinks twice, stretches – _like a girl in a muggle movie,_ he says, though he has to explain that one – kisses him on the cheek, and bounces out of bed. No bed hair for her, she wakes up gleaming and groomed. Not like him who has to groan and struggle to remember how his limbs work – although to be honest it's been easier in the last couple of years, his senses sharped, his alertness less human itself.

  
  


She's like clockwork too, he says; nine o'clock on the dot. She throws on some clothes, which seem magically transformed into something exquisite by her touch, and goes down to breakfast. This morning she finds she's not the first up – there are already two girls and a baby at the table.

  
  


“How is there baby?” she greets them without any preamble, realises that this is not _the_ best made sentence and that her vocabulary would do well to catch up to being awake as quickly as she does.

  
  


“ _Why_ is there baby?” she tries again - “Whose?”

  
  


“This is Teddy,” Hermione says - “Lupin and Tonks's boy – he came with Andromeda.”

  
  


“Huh.” She drinks a juice, eats a toast; she does not taste things strongly, she suspects it is very different from how other people taste things. Besides, English food, what can you do? “He is not very interesting,” she decides. “I will have one one day but not for now. You can keep.”

  
  


“Good morning to you too, Fleur,” Hermione sighs. That girl does _not_ look happy with being awake.

  
  


“No, he doesn't do much -” says the pale haired girl – Fleur remembers that her name is Luna, she wonders why she's here - “A bit disappointing really. The jelly's nice though. It has fruits in it.”

  
  


“Is Monsier Malfoy awake yet?”

  
  


“Draco? No, why?”

  
  


“I wish to see. I have been thinking.”

  
  


Hermione looks at her as though expecting more. She has noticed that people do this to her a lot. But she does not feel a need to explain herself further; it's none of their business after all. She has never been the kind of girl who other girls like and while she suspects that both of these girls are the same in their way, she has never been particularly interested in being otherwise. She _is –_ somewhat to her own surprise – interested in the unfolding Romance in this house – it's like something out of French romance, only both the protagonists are boys and therefore it's all twice as ridiculous as usual.

  
  


“Maybe I wake him up,” she shrugs, standing. She peers across the corridor to where two women are hugging, at least one of them crying, in the opposite drawing room.

  
  


“What is happening here?”

  
  


“They're hugging,” Hermione sighs.

  
  


“They're sisters,” Luna adds - “But I think they only just worked that out. It's very nice.”

  
  


“These Purebloods.” She rolls her eyes and once again does not explain the comment; it comes at the end of a long train of thought she has been having about these people and their attitudes but she feels no need to explain this to the girls here. It's not so much the snobbery, she may at times enjoy a little of that herself; it's more an uneasiness at the sense of superiority directed not only to muggles, but to magical non human creatures, which she suspects on a logical level does include herself even though the nature of Veela magic leaves everyone in awe of them. She knows from her time at Gringotts that however much the Wizarding world may appreciate the talents of magical creatures, this tends to be only in so far as they can use them for their own ends; and that in all technical legislation they are not covered by the same rights governing human magical practitioners.

  
  


Anyway, she has no intention of staying around and being privy to all this girly gushiness; if it's not about her she's not especially interested, which reminds her – she gets up without comment and heads upstairs. She may not pay overmuch attention but she still knows where to find the younger Monsieur Malfoy at this time of day and she raps on his door smartly.

  
  


“Come in?” A sleepy voice sighs with very minimal enthusiasm. “Oh -” the boy frowns when she does, sat on the side of his bed in a dressing gown - “I thought it was mother – what do _you_ want?”

  
  


He does not sound rude exactly, just surprised, and that's fair, she decides; it's not as though they hav ever spoken two words together. But first -

  
  


“You thought I was your mother? Why?”

  
  


“The – foot fall – I could hardly hear it – that's like mother.”

  
  


“Yes I suppose she is also – what is the word – insidious? That is maybe not the word. Never mind. No. She is hugging her sister. It is all tres dramatique -” she rolls her eyes, not disapprovingly. An English person could never pull the expression off.

  
  


“Her – sister?”

  
  


“Am I fucking stuttering? Yes, yes the one with the name like stars. You also have name like stars, it is very – you are not – huh -” she pauses – there is something strange here. Whilst yes, the boy's eyes are on her and he is frowning, attention on her, yes – he is not even faintly captivated by her presence. It is as though her aura has not touched him.

  
  


“Huh, _what?”_

  
  


“Usually when people are looking at me, they are all – you know – moon eyed and captivated, even your mother, briefly – it is only natural, it is the Veela – but you are not -”

  
  


“I'm – I'm so sorry?” this time he _is_ being rude, even sarcastic; she quite likes it. “Hate to break your bubble, but I'm really incredibly gay.”

  
  


“Is not usually relevant,” she shrugs. “Nevermind. I wanted to talk to you.”

  
  


“I'm guessing that because you're here, yes. Who sent you? My mother? Granger, maybe? Look I get it, everyone wants to help, everyone wants me and Potter to run off into the sunset and live happily ever after – well like I told Granger yesterday, I'll talk to him later, though frankly it isn't anybody's business and I don't even know where you all get this from, I don't even like him, it's a great big mess, and yes, fine, alright? I want that too? Maybe. Though I doubt he even likes me any more – if he ever did, and dear Merlin's fucking beard we _hate_ each other – I swear I don't know how you've all missed that rather vital point – he's big headed and arrogant and way too up his own moral arse and frankly so am I, so how people think that's ever going to -”

  
  


Fleur swears, rolls her eyes and sits down in the bedroom chair simultaneously - “You are so in love it is ridiculous,” she sighs - “I think I am seeing why my lure does not work here, you cannot even feel it. All you see is _him.”_

  
  


“Er – no? That's just not -”

  
  


“You are liar. And not very good one. I am thinking you should have been in Hufflepuff -”

  
  


“Oh my sweet fucking – you take that back!”

  
  


“I am not taking back, and I think you are waking up on wrong edge of bed this morning. I did not even come to talk about you silly boys and nobody is _sending_ me – I am not a fucking elf. I am coming to talk about _you –_ you fool child. You are making yourself miserable and it is not necessary.”

  
  


“I beg your pardon? I mean you don't know me – you don't have a clue what I've -”

  
  


“What you have been through, yes, yes nobody else is saying it straight to you because they are all so delicate about the feelings, so English, drinking tea and waiting for the opening up but it does not come because you are all too stiff in the upper lip. I know. I am French, we say things. We see things. And I am seeing you are hating yourself. You are thinking, why am I here with all these stupid people who do not know me and do not understand me? Why are they even caring what I'm feeling when they judge me so harsh? Because your experience of life, of the war, has been from another side, because you are thinking, oh, oh woe is me I am so evil, I have failed at everything, I can never be good again, not moral good, not good at doing things. You are thinking, I am the worst of the worst and I do not deserve to eat, drink and be merry, I do not deserve to sleep without nightmares or be loved by this boy I love -”

  
  


“I do not -”

  
  


“Shut up please, I am talking! I am seeing you Monsieur Malfoy four years ago, watching this boy and making sure that you hate him really good because if you do not you will love him too much, because you want to be him, because you want to be close - so. You are starting fights and he is fighting back, yes? Because he wants this too, you silly soul. Because even then you are always thinking you are not good enough, because your father says so. You come second to top in class, he says why not first, am I right? I am right. So. You were already easy for Dark Lord to break, but you need to not be broken. You _can_ not be.”

  
  


“How do you _know_ all this? I mean – what makes you think – I cannot believe you're even saying this to me.”

  
  


“Of course you do not. But you want to know how I know?”

  
  


She looks at him with steely blue eyes. He stares back, and she nods to herself. He is such a _child –_ they all are. The adults with a whole generation between them and these kids barely understand, but at only a few years removed she rather thinks she does. They have all been forced to grow up too fast and it has stunted them, made them simultaneously too sad, too responsible, bluffing their way through feelings and actions while at the same time being stuck in childish patterns of thought.

  
  


“I know -” she says and she feels herself honestly to be being about as generous as she has ever been in doing this but she gives a great sigh and does it anyway - “I know because I am feeling it too.”

  
  


“Feeling – _what?”_

  
  


“Failure,” she nods stiffly.

  
  


“Excuse me – _you?_ You feel a sense of failure? _How?”_

  
  


She grunts a wry laugh.

  
  


“Because of course, you think only you can do poorly, but I ask you this Malfoy – who is losing the Triwizard Tournament?”

  
  


His eyes widen with a flare of understanding. Then he shakes his head -

  
  


“That's hardly – I mean no offence, but it's really not the same?”

  
  


“Does it have to be? No. No two experience ever are the same but I – I have grown up believing I could do anything, spoilt, yes, like you I think. I thought I was perfect, that I could never fail at anything in my life and when I was chosen for my school's Champion I am nodding, I am thinking, yes yes of course it is me because I am the best! And then I am fighting a dragon and for the first time in my life I am how you say? _Shit scared.”_

  
  


He snorts a laugh himself to hear her use the phrase but he nods -

  
  


“I saw you do that. It was – well it was brilliant. You all were.”

  
  


“Yes. It was exceptional. To be chosen; but do you know something, Malfoy? I have spoken to many girls, girls who were _not_ chosen. After the dragon so many of them crying, wishing to have been me and I am realising it is _hard_ to be chosen, yes, often it is, especially if you are like Harry and you are not wanting this. But I see with these girls – my friends from Beauxbatons – it is so much harder _not_ to be chosen yes? I think you know this – to _not_ feel special, it is – not a nice feeling.”

  
  


“No,” he agrees; she sees the chin wobble and nods, hopefully he will cry, he needs to cry.

  
  


“So - “she goes on, surprised to find she has so many words in her once she starts, she will have to thank Bill for the vocabularly - “You are chosen for something, yes, and it is this big word “Chosen” - like a tattoo where everyone can see -” she notes him fiddle with his dressing gown sleeve - “Is like brand. You hate it and you like it. You want it and you fight it. I think this is you with everything. Anyway yes, I am fighting dragon, I am scared as a shit – do not laugh!” but she smiles - “I feel how small I am, how irrelevant, so tiny in body I could just break any minute, gone - and then I am a winner and I feel only – only still this feeling of smallness and of having to be aware that others are not me. And then – this is important part. Then I fail and I fail again. Everyone says “Oh well but you learn from this,” yes? But when you are feeling failure you think only you are not good enough, you think all you have learnt is that you suck. Yes. I feel this. I felt it. I felt I will never be feeling like triumph again – I will feel always like loser, not worth a shit. And this is what you are feeling now, yes?”

  
  


“It – it is yes,” he admits.

  
  


“It is different, yes but also the same. I understand also I do not. Everyone can feel many things that are contrary simultaneously – this is a right word yes? _Simultaneously –_ it is very long,” she enunciates each syllable very carefully, unable to stop herself from a certain amount of childish pride herself, surprised to find herself looking to this boy for aproval.

  
  


“It's the right word yes. I confess I find it hard to believe that someone like you could ever have felt themselves a failure.”

  
  


“Someone like me? And tell me – in your opinion – what is that?”

  
  


“Well – I mean someone succesful, beautiful if you like that sort of thing – well hang it all I'm not going to just sit here and compliment you!” he sneers a little - “You know you're perfect.”

  
  


“In some ways yes, in others no,” she tosses her hair, finding that she actually rather delights in being able to talk to someone who is utterly unmoved by her every gesture since in truth, they never have been mannerisms intended to seduce, everyone has always just fallen over their own feet at her anyway. Frankly, it's been tedious.

  
  


“I think what I wanted to say – what I wish you to know – is that yes, you feel like nobody is as bad as you, nobody has ever, hmmm – sucked so hard? But I did, I felt that way before I met Bill, but he got me back on the feet again. Now I know yes, I am lousy champion, but I am learning – from Bill – to be a better person; without him I might have been, I do not know – apathetic as to which side to take in the war? But I am choosing and I am fighting – if it was the right choice, this was more by luck than anything else – and who I had around me. You also, chose based on circumstance and options and the people around you. This is not defining you. Do you see?”

  
  


“Thank you - ” Draco rises - “I _do._ Thank you - ” he nods stiffly, like somebody who is not used to thanking others - “I have to get dressed and go talk to -”

  
  


“Harry yes,” she nods, standing likewise - “You do this. Also talk to yourself and listen – okay?”

  
  


“Okay. Can I ask you something?”

  
  


“You can ask.”

  
  


“I've never heard you speak long to anyone here - can I ask you why me? Why now?”

  
  


“Fft – you are like me, also wanting compliments yes? In truth? You are reminding me of my little sister.”

  
  


“Your – little – sister?” he looks almost comically appalled.

  
  


“Yes yes my Gabrielle – she is like you, very sweet, very innocent and trusting. A foolish, beautiful child that I love.”

  
  


“I am -” he splutters - “I am _none_ of those thi -” she _pffts_ him again, amused but with very little time to spare for such bluster.

  
  


“Good day Monsieur Malfoy. It has been pleasure.” She nods in the doorway, one hand upon the edge.

  
  


“Fleur? Can I call you Fleur?” he has a crafty grin in the corners of his eyes and she nods. Draco's grin creeps all the way to his lips as he says -

  
  


“Vous savez que je parle couramment français non?”

  
  


She stares at him for a beat, almost ready to do something she never does and shout -

  
  


“ _Toujours pur -”_ she sighs instead - “You could have -”

  
  


“I know, but this was funnier.”

  
  


“You are – you are -” she huffs but she also laughs - “What is that wonderful word? Ah oui oui je sais crois – you are _wanker_ Monsier Draco. Good day.”

  
  


She sweeps out still laughing, leaving Draco still smirking.

__x__

**So obviously what Draco said was "You do know I speak fluent French right?" - huge thanks to the person who fixed this for me! :-)**

**Fleur is actually one of my absolute all time favourite characters in the whole series but I think she's also one of the worst written, since there was no way I was gonna write her accent the way JK does I really hope I managed to convey her tone and speech patterns this way instead. I've basically based it on the way my Belgian family speak English so I hope she comes off right :-) I LOVE FLEUR AND SHE DESERVED TO BE WRITTEN SO MUCH BETTER!!!!!**

  
  


__x__


	14. Luna

  
  


**14.**

  
  


**Luna**

  
  


“I like her,” Luna announces the minute Fleur leaves.

  
  


“What? Fleur? Really?” Hermione frowns - “She's – well, I think she's quite difficult to like, to be honest.”

  
  


“But sometimes difficult is good.” Luna nods to herself - “ _You_ like difficult. Like on a test. Sometimes it's more satisfying for being a bit tricky. I'm difficult to like too,” she adds - “I expect. I never really thought about it. I think I'll go and see Harry now.”

  
  


“He'll be asleep,” Hermione raises an eyebrow warningly.

  
  


“Maybe he can see me already then.” Luna shrugs a little, after all this makes sense, doesn't it? If he's asleep he could be anywhere, with anyone. She rather suspects it's not her though. Not really.

  
  


“Oh -” she remembers as she stands up, handing Teddy back to Hermione - “Ginny says hello, and have Harry and Draco worked it out yet?”

  
  


“Um – you've seen her? And I mean no, they quite emphatically have not. Wait – how did she know? She hasn't even been here.”

  
  


“She has eyes,” Luna shrugs - “They're very pretty, don't you think? I've seen her a lot. Anyway she tried going out with Harry before she worked out she was gay, so of course she worked out that he was too even if he didn't – or bi, maybe, she says she's not sure, either way it doesn't matter just now since he's been in love with Draco since first year.”

  
  


“ _First year?”_ Hermione yells, then lowers her voice because Teddy gives a quiet wail at the noise - “Hold on, wait – _Ginny's gay?_ And Draco's gay. Seamus and Dean were gay and Harry's at least a bit gay? Are _you_ gay? I don't think I can cope any more.”

  
  


“Sometimes,” Luna shrugs. Now and then. Mostly at the moment because you know – Ginny.”

  
  


“I _can't_ cope any more,” Hermione moans. Luna shrugs again; she can't see _why_ Hermione suddenly can't cope – at least not over anything she may have just said. Of course, they're all not coping, the people in this house; this is the house of not coping. Maybe Ron's coping and then she and Gin are remarkably okay but that's why they're not here, in the healing house. Actually, she thinks, as she makes her way up the stairs, footsteps creaking as she goes – it's not a very _good_ house for healing is it? Like putting somebody on a locked ward at St Mungo's, she can't see how it could make someone who was already feeling badly in the head feel better; in fact if they had been well to start with, those sorts of places might make them ill, and _this_ house – maybe she should clean it. Yes that could be a start – get rid of the fusty old portraits and creepy horror movie wallpaper – Luna loves muggle horror movies, they're so funny, she's been showing Ginny, late nights snuggled up on the sofa at the Burrow which is blissfully quiet these days with everybody else here. Anyway yes, the horror movie wallpaper and the ancient heaviness of Purebloods past. There's a musty great layer of oppression over everything in this place as well as the dust. That's that then; as soon as she's spoken to Harry she's going to start cleaning. Maybe speaking to Harry is cleaning too. Maybe she should ask him before she starts overhauling his house.

  
  


Anyway.

  
  


She knocks on the first upstairs bedroom door and a voice calls roughly to her to come in. Actually it doesn't sound much like Harry's voice but she goes in anyway. Oh, it's Lucius Malfoy.

  
  


“You're not Harry Potter,” Luna announces. He stares at her, squints a little, sort of glares, looks like he does not know what to say and is trying to place her all at once.

  
  


“I'm Luna,” she says helpfully. “Luna Lovegood. I was in your dungeon for half a year. It wasn't very nice, but it's it's alright now. You don't have to speak to me if you don't want to. I'm looking for Harry Potter. You have a very nice wife and child. Goodbye.”

  
  


Lucius moves his mouth a few times. He does not look well, Luna decides. He always used to look so nice, now his hair needs brushing and he clearly does not shave too frequently. In fact he looks rather pale and thin and his hands move a little worriedly in his lap. It's sad.

  
  


“I regret -” he begins.

  
  


“Oh no you mustn't do that!” Luna's eyes widen in alarm - “Regrets are a waste of time. You see, they don't help and they make you feel all wiggly inside. You should brush your hair though, and talk about things. They _do_ make you feel better. Honest. I better go and find Harry now.”

  
  


“Across the – corridor. Second door down.”

  
  


“Oh thank you, that's kind. I'll see you later, Mr Malfoy.”

  
  


She closes the door gently. Poor man, she thinks. Actually she did mind being in those dungeons more than she let on just there; she just didn't want him to know that. He clearly feels bad enough about enough things as it is. She is about to knock on the door he directed her to, but hears voices coming from inside – it's Fleur talking to Draco. Her first thought is _oh, I wonder why he wants me to talk to Draco_ and her second is _what a fib – directing me to Draco's door instead of Harry's!_

Of course she actually _does_ want to talk to Draco at some point, and will, but Fleur's in there and Harry, she suspects from what Hermione has told her, is sulking somewhere and he gives off a bad aura when he sulks. She dithers in the corridor until somebody comes past. It's George Weasley who squints at her -

  
  


“Luna? When did you get here?”

  
  


“That's not what you used to call me.”

  
  


“I, well -” he looks a little confused. He looks like someone looks when they have been cut in half in the moments before the dead pieces fall to the floor - “I was being nice.”

  
  


“Oh, please don't, it doesn't suit you – oh well I didn't mean that exactly, how rude of me, I meant it means you're sad – I know you _are_ sad but please – call me Loony?”

  
  


“Er – okay?”

  
  


“That's that, then. Do you know which room is Harry's? Not that I don't like the Malfoys but I already disturbed one this morning- nearly two -and I _do_ need to talk to Harry, he's being something of an idiot.”

  
  


George gives the ghost of a smile -

  
  


“That one,” he points her to it.

  
  


“Thank you!” she smiles brightly and raps on Harry's door as George wanders off down the hall.

  
  


“Harry!” she calls out, raps again - “Harry!” and again - “Harry!” Pause - “I'm going to carry on until you open this door Harry Potter so you may as well let me in!”

  
  


She waits, semi patiently, while she hears a grunting and shuffling coming towards the door and finally Harry opens it a few inches and peers out yawning, hair sticking out in all directions -

  
  


“Luna? Why are you here? When did you get here? What time is it?”

  
  


“It's just gone nine, about half an hour ago but I had to eat jelly and hold a baby first – he's very uneventful but the jelly had orange bits in it, you should try some- and I'm here to help Hermione help you because she's stressed, only she's pretending she isn't because she's Hermione. Not in that order though, reverse that order, can I come in?”

  
  


“You're going to anyway aren't you?” Harry yawns again.

  
  


“Yes.” she walks in, Harry falls back making a defeated sort of _come on in_ gesture with a rather flappy hand, Luna thinks - “Draco's awake before you. That doesn't usually happen, does it?”

  
  


“He _is?_ How do you know? Has he come downstairs already? Is he – how is he? I mean, shit Luna I don't _care_ if Draco's awake – _or_ how and where he is,” he adds lamely.

  
  


“Of course you don't.” Luna pats him on the head; his hair feels nice. She does it again until he gives her that look which means somebody is finding her a little _too_ peculiar. She makes his bed and lies down on top of the duvet. Harry looks at her and eventually sits down in the baggy green armchair. She wonders why it takes him so long.

  
  


“Babies don't really do anything, do they?” she muses - “I mean – they smell nice until they poo and they're sort of squishy to hold – maybe that's the poo though - and I suppose that's quite nice but I still don't see why everyone goes on about them so much. I don't think I'll have any. I mean I didn't just decide that just now of course. I think I'd rather have a kitten. Maybe five kittens, do you think that would weigh the same as a baby?”

  
  


“Luna -” Harry says slowly, oh that's _patient but straining,_ that's what that voice is - “Not that I don't appreciate you being here, but did you come up here just to talk about babies? Also – _whose_ baby is downstairs?”

  
  


“His name's Teddy, he's Remus and Tonks'. He can change his hair like she can but he has kind eyes like Remus. Do you know who else has kind eyes?”

  
  


“You're going to tell me, aren't you?”

  
  


“Draco Malfoy,” Luna nods “They're very sad and often angry and when he wants to cover up his feelings they go all flinty because he's trying to be hard but he's not – but underneath all that they're very kind eyes, like his mother's only silvery.”

  
  


“ _Kind eyes? Draco?_ Are we talking about the same person?”

  
  


“Just because you had some sort of falling out last night – yes you did, Hermione told me – doesn't mean he's not kind. You weren't there when I was staying at the Manor – I mean staying at the Manor makes it sound nice, but I was in a dungeon so it was ever so boring and a bit unpleasant – but he came to see me quite a lot and brought me extra food and books at least so I had something to do. He always looked so scared but he did it anyway. He got me blankets too. That's really incredibly brave, don't you think?”

  
  


“Christ on a bike Luna, if you like Malfoy so much why don't _you_ go out with him?”

  
  


“I'm going out with Ginny, thank you, and there's no need to be a jerk, Harry. Yes I said jerk. Me.” She giggles to herself and stretches her toes, kicking off her shoes.

  
  


“Did Hermione send you to tell me to talk to Draco? Because I _was_ going to anyway, but I don't know why you're all acting like _I'm_ the dick here – you have no idea what happened yesterday anyway.”

  
  


“You both went back to Malfoy Manor, didn't you? You had sex and then Draco got arsey about it because he's afraid of how much he loves you and it was too much too fast, too close, too intimate so he lashed out at you to protect his own feelings because he's terrified. He's been being told he's weak and useless for two years. Voldemort Crucioed it right into him after he didn't kill Dumbledore so he can't just _stop_ for all you seem to think it's easy. He thinks that it's a weakness to love, especially when it's you because he looks up to you so much – I think he kind of wanted to be you, and then he wanted to be your friend and -”

  
  


“Okay _stop._ He doesn't want to _be_ me. That's – that's insane and how did picking on me mean he wanted to be my friend?”

  
  


“He tried to make friends with you the first time he saw you, he told me, in Madam Malkin's, and again on the first day of school and it went down like a dicky owl. Like Errol. He went down quite hard, didn't he? Used to fly right into the wall. It went down like Errol on a bad day. And yes, of _course_ he wanted to be The Chosen One – most of our year did, you know, and then he _did_ get chosen for something and it turned out to be awful so maybe you should cut him a bit of slack for being a teensy bit reactive after some really good sex. It was probably very emotional too.”

  
  


“I – I – I -” Harry shakes his head – “How do you even _know_ about the – the – sex? Did he _tell_ you all?”

  
  


“Oh Harry -” Luna swings her legs round and sits on the side of the bed - “It's terribly, terribly obvious isn't it? It always was even when you were just doing what you did in broom closets in school. It was obvious every time you picked on each other. He loves you Harry, at least as much as you love him and don't say _I don't -”_

  
  


“ _I -”_

  
  


“Because you _do,_ and you're a terrible liar, which is funny really because so is he. He's very honest and sweet and lonely and to tell you the truth between that and being as brave as he was to me I think he was in the wrong house – only don't tell him I said that – it might hurt his feelings.”

  
  


“Ughh,” Harry groans, looking at Luna properly for the first time and trying to smile. Well that's something at least. “All this time I used to think _what if I'd been in Slytherin –_ partly because the hat nearly put me there, but also because maybe – maybe we _would_ have been friends – and you're saying that he should have been in Gryffindor? Really?”

  
  


“I think Hufflepuff. But really – don't tell him, he'd be mortified. Anyway, you don't have to be in the same house to be friends – or whatever it is you want to be to each other – _I'm_ from a different house, aren't I? People should engage with what's different then they won't treat it so badly. Personally I think the whole system is fundamentally flawed.” She nods decisively.

  
  


“You sound like Hermione.”

  
  


“Hermione's brain goes in very lateral directions, but she is often right in spite of that.”

  
  


Harry laughs.

  
  


“I need coffee. I'm glad you're here, Luna and – yes -” he holds up a hand before she can say it - “I will go and talk to Draco. Right now. I can see you won't stop until I do.”

  
  


“That's right. Be brave, Harry Potter, you know you can be.”

  
  


“I think maybe fighting a war was easier?”

  
  


“Wars aren't just battles -” Luna smiles softly, sympathetically, places a hand on Harry's chest - “The toughest ones are fought in here. You better win – we were counting on you in the last one but you have to win this one for you, not us, you know?”

  
  


“I, er -”

  
  


“I'll be going now. I'm going to clean and renovate your house, can I? It's not very perky.”

  
  


“Um – yeah, I guess?”

  
  


“Good. I'll see you later.”

  
  


She saunters out, smiling, almost bumping into Fleur in the hallway who frowns at her in curiosity. Luna gives her a thumbs up and skips aound the corner. As Fleur heads downstairs, Luna lingers for a moment, whispering under her breath – _and one, two three -_

  
  


On four she hears two bedroom doors open, footsteps in the hall, a pause -

  
  


“Potter,” - cautious, slightly tense, not quite cold, ready for the fight.

  
  


“Malfoy,” - exactly the same, they are so alike she thinks, and they don't even know – _we two together clinging –_ she thinks, the words tripping through her head as she creeps softly down the stairs – _one the other never leaving –_ and something about _eating, drinking, sleeping, loving –_ and she hopes they do, she really hopes they do.

  
  


__x__

  
**I was nervous to write Luna, cause fond as I am of her I don't always love the way she's written in canon (either - yes I have a lot of problems with canon ok!!) - so I hope she's not too Manic Pixie Dreamgirl and once again I could improve on a character a little! I hope!!**


	15. Harry

  
  


**Harry**

  
  


The thing is, before Luna arrived, he had managed to get everything sorted in his head, exactly as he thought it all was. He had worked it out. He had been awake most of the night working it out. The truth he had finally come to was that Draco hated him. He had always hated him. This hadn't stopped some kind of attraction, obviously, but yesterday at the manor had been going too far and Draco had realised this and regretted what had happened almost as soon as it was over. It was obvious. He had cut himself straight off from Harry the moment Harry had woken up because he was annoyed that this had happened, because he wanted to make it perfectly clear that they were still enemies in spite of everything he had been starting to think, and that he needed Harry to back right off.

  
  


So. Okay. Processing this, and in light of it, Harry had cut himself off in return as quickly as he could and backed off fast. He loved Draco, there was no getting away from that now, but Draco clearly did not love him and he had promised himself right from the start he would do everything he could to help him. So, helping him, he had gone straight to his room last night and spoken to nobody. He supposed he should have been nicer, friendlier, but the truth was his heart was breaking and he couldn't talk to anyone, just had to do what he had to do that would be for the best. He had just been coming to the decision that he should probably leave Number 12 for a while and go stay maybe at The Burrow or with Neville if he'd have him – anywhere other than be here – when Luna had wandered gently in and turned everything upside down again, as easily as flipping an hour glass.

  
  


Because there was no way, listening to Luna, that he could doubt what she was saying. That was the funny thing – alright, that was one of a lot of funny things – about Luna – that however strange or horrifically on the nose the thing she said was, one could not possibly doubt her sincerity or accuracy. If she had been otherwise she probably would have said things more nicely.

  
  


Actually she left him feeling like an idiot. Of course that was what Draco was doing, it was obvious and he had been stupid. But wasn't he doing it, too? Wasn't he also in love and afraid of it and overwhelmed by how fast things were going and the intensity of these feelings that threatened to drown him? He had dreamed last night that they had fallen into the fire in the room of requirement together and were burning there and now in the light of day it hardly felt as though the dream had ended.

  
  


If he didn't go now, he might not go at all; and if _he_ had been thinking of just leaving, then it was very likely that so was Draco - he realised that now, unpleasant though it was to admit – their minds apparently worked in ridiculously similar ways, obsessive, stubborn and sarcastic. He swore internally – how would they – how _could_ they ever work this out when they were both like this?

He flings himself out of the chair and out the door before he can think himself out of it.

He starts, in the corridor, hearing an echoing thump to the thump of his door and turning to see Draco march out with what looks like a similar level of decisiveness as he has just displayed himself. They look at each other, both frozen for a moment in each others headlights -

  
  


“ _Potter.”_

  
  


“ _Malfoy.”_

  
  


It's cold, as cold as they have ever been. But it's an iciness that burns, it's been burning them for seven years. They head towards each other as though hauling themselves together by the rope that connects them, a rope they have always treated as a tug of war, trying to throw each ther over when they should have been pulling themselves along it towards each other.

  
  


Harry stops about a metre away and so does Draco. He wonders how he never noticed before how much they had to mirror each other. He thinks about what he said yesterday, about how in Draco's circumstances he would have done the same things; and it's true, they are just two boys, painfully alike and hating it, despising their differences and the fact that they are never ever close enough together. They need, Harry thinks, to be occupying the same space, he could crawl inside of Draco and live in his skin, he could hold Draco in turn, inside his own chest and they might just about be tight enough together. This need has been there from the first and they were both too busy hating it to really know it.

  
  


“I thought -” he says, taking a deep breath to say it - “I thought you hated me -” Draco smirks, but it's somehow kind.

  
  


“I did.”

  
  


“Specifically, yesterday -” he brushes the comment away. “After – you know – you were kind of a mega dick and I thought you regretted everything. But you didn't did you? Luna said.”

  
  


“Clever little nutter, isn't she? I must have a word some time.”

  
  


“She wants to talk to you, too. Look – I don't want to be difficult -”

  
  


“That's a first -”

  
  


“Do shut up, Malfoy. I'm trying to say I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry I just stomped off to my room last night and didn't try to talk to you. I thought it was what you wanted. I thought – look, I can't pretend to know what you're going through. I won't. But I meant it when I said I wanted to help. The problem is I love you and I'm struggling to see straight from it. I don't know -”

  
  


“You what?”

  
  


“I love you. You heard.”

  
  


“ I did. I just wanted to hear you say it again. Go on.”

  
  


“I think I always have. It was- I mean, I tried not to and I did hate you, I suppose I still do but – well – it was always you, wasn't it? It was always going to be you. You're the only one who makes me feel – like me – just me. Not a saviour. Not the chosen one. Just Harry stupid Potter and I want that. I want _you. I – I need you to be_ me. All of you. The way you look, the way you make me feel, the way you make me laugh, the bitter, cutting, mean loveliness of you. I want it all, alright? I can't let you run away from this, it's too much, but if you want me to go I'll go, I'll never mention this again or a single thing more, so if you're going to – do it now. Tell me to go.”

  
  


“ _All_ of it?” Draco's face crumples like a ball of paper, confusion and bewilderment, fear and hope and disbelief - “You want me? Really? Do you even know -”

  
  


“Please.” Harry feels like he might break apart and all the broken bits would cut everyone in the house to pieces and Draco the worst. “If you're going to tell me to go, tell me -”

  
  


“I'm not. I don't want -” Draco heaves a sigh that moves his whole body - “Luna was right. But just because she was right doesn't mean I can be less scared. It's like a dream. Something I've wanted for far too long to possibly have. You say you want all of me? You don't know the worst – what if you -”

  
  


“Don't I? I know you nearly killed my best friend, I know what you did to Katie Bell. I was _there_ Draco – on the Astronomy Tower that night – I know what you tried to do, what you couldn't do – I know why you tried and I know that you couldn't have and if I had not loved you before I think I might have loved you then, when you were your _worst_ as you put it. I _saw_ some of the things he made you do, I used to dream them. I knew what he did to _you_ even before Luna told me – so tell me now, if you did any of those things by choice, or if there's more, then tell me I don't know the worst.”

  
  


“I -” there are spots of brightness in Draco's cheeks, the battle against denying it all visible across his face - “I _did_ choose to do a lot of things, Potter, I was rotten to you – and your friends, and when he – _Voldemort –_ mocked us to all the others I got an idea of how that felt, and I knew I deserved everything I got from him. I don't think I'd ever be like that again, but that hardly undoes what I did in the past. I don't even know if atonement's really my thing. So now you think, what? That there's a heart of gold beneath the jibes and the sneering? There's not, there's just me -”

  
  


“Just you. Trying. I've seen you Draco, I've seen you every day trying, you and your mother, changing how you think, how you behave. You've always thought you were like your father, haven't you? Well that's not who you take after at all. I see you, we've all seen you. Being better than you were. I don't need a heart of gold; who has that ? I just need you, being you, being better today than you were yesterday, that's all any of us can try for, isn't it? I fail at least as much as you, you know.”

  
  


“Oh, really?” Draco pushes his sleeve back.

  
  


“Oh for fuck's sake -” Harry grabs Draco's wrist – it feels agonisingly frail in his hand, and he turns it over, pulling himself in as he does so, like this one damaged arm is his life raft, stroking his thumb over the edge of the black, running it up the line of the snake before bending his head and pressing a kiss into Draco's inner arm which feels – like skin, just like skin; he shakes his head gently and looks up at Draco, at the frightened bewilderment scribbled across his forehead - “It's just skin, Draco, no more you than your other arm. We all have scars and maybe they do add to what we are but I don't think they define us. Am I really still nothing but _scarhead_ to you?”

  
  


“Pfft -” Draco snorts - “It's no more you than this is me. You know I never looked up to you just for not dying as a baby. We're all boys who lived now.”

  
  


“ _Yes.”_ Draco's words feel like a wash of pure water through his core - “God yes. I never wanted to be different, you know. I never wanted praise for living, god anything but that, especially when so many have died. This _Saviour,_ crap? I hate it – like I did more than anyone else – we all risked everything, we lost things, we died -”

  
  


“ _Yes -_ ” Draco whispers like it's a secret, a scared, cold little secret buried so deep inside him it can only come out in a trickle - “I died when you did – when I thought you were dead, something gave up in me that had not – I mean I didn't even know – it hadn't given up the whole time – but then – without you there was nothing – I couldn't hope, I couldn't be strong – I'm not Neville – all I could do was join my parents, they were the only thing left – I wish -”

  
  


“Doesn't matter -” he clasps the back of Draco's head in his hand, presses their foreheads together. “It doesn't matter what you wish you'd done – the second I was alive you were there – not any of the others, it was you – you who realised I was unarmed, you who fixed it. It was your wand that destroyed Voldemort, not mine, not Neville's, none of the others – _you_ you were the one by my side at the end. We were always meant to fight, weren't we? But together on the same side – we've been stupid, and I want -”

  
  


But he finds he does not have to say what he wants, because Draco is kissing him, lips soft and hot and hungry, like he, Harry, is the one thing he's not afraid to consume and if he can say _I love you I love you I love you_ in silence he says it with every line of his body, with every press of his hands and suddenly this problem where they cannot stop touching, cannot communicate beyond their physical urges, is the opposite of a problem and when Draco runs his lips up Harry's face and kisses him so softly on the scar he starts to cry, like he has not done this whole time, quietly but wrenchingly, shaking with it, incapable of saying anything other than _I love you I love you I do -_

  
  


“Draco I swear I – it's always been you, forgive me, I'm sorry, I've been so stupid – nobody's -” he wants to say _nobody's ever kissed me there before –_ but as it comes to his lips, so it comes into his mind – the fact that ever since he can remember, people have commented on that stupid scar, acting as though it was the marker of his entire personality, in awe of it, heaping accolades upon him for it – everything other than anybody ever trying to simply kiss it better – like this was so simple nobody even thought of it. It strikes him as painfully _Draco_ of Draco to do this, simple and impulsive and affectionate and open – open like he was in their first year, before the world and the war ever taught him to close up, just a kid who had tried to make friends with another kid going to the same school, neither boy quite knowing how to do it.

  
  


“Come on -” Draco says and he leads him by the hand through the bedroom door. He follows, he has always wanted just to follow, not always to have to lead. He feels small and powerful, breaking apart and coming together all at once, and maybe it _is_ too much too soon too fast, but he thinks perhaps it doesn't matter any more and if he can just wrap himself up in Draco's body it can be the thing that will heal him like he has needed for so much longer than he realised.

  
  


“I want -” he swallows enough tears to be able to speak, unable to believe what he wants considering he's just been crying, but he does, he does, he really does - “I adore you – I want to do everything to you – with you – can I -”

  
  


“ _Yes,”_ Draco says, vehemently, leaning back into the bed and pulling Harry down onto him - “Tell me. Tell me everything -” There is a brightness in his eyes, the brightness Harry saw there the first time he saw him on a broom, getting on and taking off with such exquisite elegance - he had thought that light had gone forever – he has never been happier to be proved wrong. There was a part of him that had fallen in love with Draco that day, though he had hardly understood it – an elation at another person's beauty that had lifted him into the air so effortlessly he should have known they were always meant to fly together – of course – of _course_ that had been the first moment he thought of when he was first attempting a Patronus – the moment he had fallen head over heels whilst still deciding his first love was his first hate.

  
  


“Love me,” Draco orders, something like confidence creeping back into his voice for the first time in so long and it sounds like this is something he has always wanted to say, hiding the honesty of it all this time beneath a supercilious arrogant attempt to impress - “Want me. Worship me -” he makes a moment of sharp eye contact that asks Harry if this is going too far, and when he finds nothing in Harry's eyes but a willingness, nay, desperation, to do exactly this he smiles, crookedly, and adds - “- but touch me while you do it because _everything_ could take a while and we have seven years to make up for.”

  
  


__x__


	16. Lucius

  
  


**16.**

  
  


**Lucius**

  
  


_I don't know,_ he said, and his mind has been stuck on the three words ever since; sometimes he just sits in this room, half rocking to himself while they roll over and over in his mind; _I don't know I don't know I don't know_ while a new world springs up and grows and thrives beyond this bedroom door.

  
  


_How do you live with yourself, Lucius?_

_I don't know -_

  
  


and he doesn't. He doesn't. He is not sure who he can even be in this world that is moving on without him. It is not the world he fought for, but by the end he knew – or half knew, that he did not even _want_ the world he had fought for. He is not in the habit of admitting he was in the wrong and he is not one to break a habit. How to pick up the threads of a life when almost every single one of those threads has been cut? He could have been content with death or Azkaban, both of which he had expected far more than this – this curious reprieve, this undeserved leniance. Azkaban the first time round had close to sent him mad; if he had gone back as he should have done he could have taken refuge perhaps in a fuller, more embracing madness, but no, no- he has to hold on here in a terrible weak grasp at sanity alongside all the people he has wronged the most in the knowledge that he is weaker than any of them, his family held together by his wife, the best of him glittering through the cracks his mistakes have made in his son.

  
  


Madness too suddenly strikes him today as no reprieve – it was the Lovegood girl who had unmoored him this time – she was mad as a box of frogs; everybody knew it, everybody said so, she knew it herself. Perhaps it had started out as an escape for her once, but apparently even that level of craziness was no excuse for making the right choices, for doing the right thing.

  
  


Right and wrong had never bothered him before. Only strength and weakness. His father had instilled in him firmly that strength was everything, magic is might and _goodness_ led to weakness so often as to be barely sought after. Tenderness, too, had always been his downfall, first with Cissy and then Draco. Draco – if he is honest with himself, and circumstances force him to be – had never been the son he had really hoped for, so carefree and happy as a child, always more mischievous than truly cunning – he had feared for years that the boy wouldn't even make Slytherin, instilling into him – as his father had with him – the disappointment and recriminations that would come if he did not. In truth, the boy was so close to his mother, so hard working in his early studies, so gentle to the peacocks, crying when they pecked his hand too hard when he held it out timorously with seeds – he had been terrified of having spawned a Hufflepuff. And yet – yet he thinks about that boy, that smiling, mercurial, sunshine child so quick to both tears or laughter and something clenches hard inside his chest that he knew he should have long ago stopped from being able to clench.

  
  


Cissy too, he suspected, had always acted more out of loyalty to the family than any true dediction to the cause – to the Ministry or to the Dark Lord. She had supported him silently in everything, yes, but shown no passion for anything beyond himself or Draco. When she had fought him on anything it was only where the boy was concerned; and in those instances, she had been fierce enough to scratch him into submission every time. The truth was and is that any time his wife truly insisted on anything at all, he would always give way to her, not because he was scared of her moods – her steely temper and her terrible terrifying silences - but because he wanted more than anything in the world to make her happy; to give her everything. Draco too. He had been raised in a firm belief in the necessity for power – power meant stability – enough wealth and influence and your family could never be harmed. So he had always gone where the power was and morals be damned.

  
  


And he had still failed. This is the part that kills him by degrees, has been killing him since he got out of Azkaban. He had been right in so many ways to want to stay there rather than face the Dark Lord again, but in the end it had not been the Dark Lord that was too much to face- it was seeing the change in Draco. It was knowing that he had seen him last before the start of his fifth year – the boy he knew shining with so much of his own hope and arrogance, sparkling with his mother's tenderness and mischief, and then coming back to find him hollow cheeked and wide eyed with fear, crushed by a sense of failure and hopelessness, painfully unable to look anyone in the eye. He had felt enough of the latter himself that he cannot now remember when he last made eye contact with his son.

  
  


And here he is now, a relic in a world that does not want him and in which he cannot see a place for himself. He is ready enough to change his ideas, his viewpoints if need be, because in truth he never had any beyond what was instilled into him, what he felt he needed for maximum survival and success. Cissy has told him time and again since they came here how urgently they need to change to fit this new world, but she still has not told him how. She had said, in her sadder moments, so many times, how they have failed the children, what they owe to this generation if they even _can_ begin to make it up to them and he knows, sweet god how he knows.

  
  


But he sits in his chair and he touches his face and looks at his hands fidgeting in his lap as though constantly trying to reassure himself he does exist, that he still lives, trying to work out who he could possibly be now. The door opens and he jumps. Twice in one morning is too much.

  
  


“It's me,” his wife says. Time was, she never would have spoken two words so unnecessary, but she knows she has to now for reassurance. She lays out a small carpet bag on the bed and starts to magic things into it.

  
  


“You need to get up,” she says, before he can ask her what she is doing - “Dress properly, shave, for all that's decent, wash and come out of your room for a day or two, keep an eye on the children while I'm gone.”

  
  


“The – children?”

  
  


“Draco especially of course, but they're all struggling. I say keep an eye on them but I suspect that will go both ways. They'll look after you too if you let them.”

  
  


“Really? Mudbloods and blood -”

  
  


“Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, don't you dare!” She snaps the bag closed with an emphatic click - “Use that word again and I will jinx you into next week! You know that girl? The one we allowed to be treated so badly in our own house? The one you never stopped hassling Draco about because she beat him in class? Do you know how smart she is? How hard she works? That girl is holding herself together in a hurricane, trying to fix everybody else while they crash and scream around her, utterly oblivious to the help she needs herself. I used to know someone with that much poise and self possession. Maybe talk to _her,_ see if you can't get it back!”

  
  


“Talk to -”

  
  


“Her name is Hermione. I rather think you should. Talk to Draco, see what he can tell you. The Lovegood girl – she could spell it all out for you – how to live, how to change, how to be decent. I am _trying,_ Lucius – it's time you did too. Talk to Harry, too – you may as well get used to the boy -”

  
  


“I will _never -”_

  
  


“You – you bloody well will!” Narcissa gasps at the end of this, in the same shock that Lucius feels at hearing her use such a jarringly _Weasley_ kind of phrase - “Trust me when I say you need to get used to Mr Potter's presence Lucius, just trust me.”

  
  


“Why?”

  
  


“Some things are not for me to tell. Just trust me. When has that ever put you wrong?”

  
  


“I don't know Cissy – I don't know anything any more – I – I didn't mean to say that – those words it's just -”

  
  


It's just that the opportunity for derision and scorn gives him something to remember himself by, something to hold on to in the wreckage of himself.

  
  


“It's not a good enough reason,” Narcissa says, knowing his explanation wihtout him having to say it. “You have to let go of the bigotry, Lucius, because if the remnants of those old prejudices are the only things holding you up then – then you deserve to fall.”

  
  


“It's not -” he hangs his head - “It's a different world from the one I grew up in -” it sounds pathetic even to him - “We're losers surrounded by the people who won, we're defeated – there _is_ no place for us in this new system -”

  
  


“I've been thinking about that,” she says, sitting precariously but stiffly on the corner of the bed - “And it is, isn't it? How could it not be when change is so constant? Maybe that's why the children are moving along better than we are; they're still adjusting, they've had to, of course – and perhaps the changes you're thinking of are good after all. Losers? Really? Whose side were we on, Lucius? Would we still have lost the war if I had not lied? If Draco had not supported Potter at the last? Did you think of that? Who did you _want_ to win really, after all?”

  
  


“Tell me what to do, Cissy.”

  
  


“We change. We make a place for ourselves in this new system and we stop bleating about what we lost. So many lost so much more and I don't see them wallowing in self pity like -” she stops herself from saying _like you,_ but he hears it anyway. She sighs - “Look -” she says - “When it came down to it – at the very end – what did you care about? What outcome mattered?”

  
  


“You did,” he says, it's easy - “You and Draco.”

  
  


“Quite,” she says. “Then live for us, you always did anyway, you don't have to be a different person to change, not when the core remains the same. You live for us -” she leans across, takes his hand, it is the only thing that stills him, stops the fidgeting - “Live _with_ yourself Lucius, not _for_ yourself. It's not your voice in your head that asks you how, it's _his_ isn't it?”

She's right of course, but then again she always is.

  
  


“Help me Cissy -” he feels broken for having to ask, but she stuns him by replying -

  
  


“That's the strongest thing you've ever said, and I already have done. Now excuse me, I have to go to Australia -”

  
  


“WHAT?”

  
  


“Lucius, sit down before you hurt yourself. Yes, I have to go to Australia and speak to some muggles. It should be for long, then I'll be bringing them back here.” She does not say _end of_ or _that's that –_ she doesn't need to. Lucius feels himself open and close his mouth several times like a sodding goldfish before he decides against arguing. Narcissa, clearly witnessing him win this battle, nods in brief approval. She kisses him on the forehead and starts to leave. It's amazing, he thinks, how beautiful someone can look as they walk out a door, amazing how much he finds he could still fight to make her stay if it was forever. He takes hold of that fight and dares to ask it -

  
  


“Cissy – do you still love me?”

  
  


Her eyes melt, her lip twitches and she shakes her head minutely in a world of resigned affection and they both know she does not have to answer but she pulls pride and love around her in a cloak that fits exquisitely and replies simply -

  
  


“Always.”

  
  


He feels his lips move as she dips her head and goes, remembering the moment when he realised what was really important to him. It had been half way up a staircase as Hogwarts crumbled around them, wandless and searching frantically for his son. The staircase had suddenly swung out in a direction he had not wanted to go and he had felt dizzy with helplessness and sick with the motion of it, dropping to his hands and knees on the stones, feeling as though he might fall. _Cissy,_ his heart had screamed silently and with all his might, _Cissy help me, help Draco –_ that had been the simultaneous shout, the only true prayer his heart had ever uttered, the only one it had ever really meant – _make him safe, kill me now but bring him home -_

  
  


The twin pillars of his life had been clear to him in that moment – not good and evil, not darkness versus light, since it seemed the two could never be separate anyway – no allegiance mattered, no dichotemy in his own soul was relevant, just these two things – Cissy and Draco.

  
  


He remembers this now in view of the seemingly impossible order to come out and face this bright and terrifying, new and brilliant emerging world, a world that has every reason to reject him. A world in which he may after all _not_ still have a place. But haven't the Malfoys always made a place for themselves whatever the world? If that place means doing good rather than harm he'll do it now, even if it's hard, and it will be. For them. He takes a deep breath, takes hold of that memory, gripping onto those two things, the only important things in the world – not him, it's never been about him, he can take that now, only they matter – _Cissy and Draco._ He repeats their names over and over in his head, a better three words than _I don't know,_ perhaps in fact the answer to the original question - better than anything, the strongest three words he has. He takes hold of them firmly and uses them to stand, ready to rise up and face whatever future he can find.

  
  


__x__

  
  


**So okay, this chapter was more like wish fulfilment for me than for anything else – honestly I don't think people like Lucius ever really change but just for this fic I wanted to go with the naïve hope that he could. I have a brother in law to whom I would like to be able to say a lot of the things that Narcissa said to Lucius here, who I would love to imagine could get a grip and stop with the “It's not he world I grew up in -” boohooing) – but he's not gonna change so I liked to imagine, at least for the sake of his family, that Lucius could.**

  
  


**Btw, I realise I may have hinted at this in about three chapters at least now but yes, I have a pet headcanon that Draco really did belong in Hufflepuff, I actually hate that the hat sorted him so quickly (unless he was mentally yelling _not hufflepuff not hufflepuff_ in his head which okay doesn't seem that unlikely!) Cissy next and then I have a feeling roughly 5 ish more chapters til the end? Roughly :-)**


	17. Harry

  
  


**Harry**

  
  


He had been ready to _die._ He thinks about it now, remembering. He remembers saying it, seventeen and meaning it – _I'm ready to die._ There had been a certain dreadful peace to it, a kind of contentment – most of all, it had been absolutely true. It had seemed to him then that this was all his life had ever been for, that _the boy who lived_ had always been a cruel joke, just a distorted reflection of the intention that had always been for him to die. He no longer feels weighed down by the moniker – _we're all boys who lived now,_ Draco had said, and it felt to Harry as though those words had freed him, exonerated him and taken the pressure away.

  
  


Now, lying here, Draco's head on his shoulder, curled into him, not quite asleep but drifting happily, he feels awash with horror at how ready he had been. To have died then, and never felt again – to experience nothing more, because there _was_ no guarantee of more and nothingness the only safe assumption he could make – he shudders. Never to have felt _this –_ he is not sure he could have died feeling as though he had lived at all. _This_ feels like so much, feels like everything, the warm weight of this soft golden head on his shoulder, Draco's deep breaths warm against his skin, the natural way in which his fingers run up and down the length of the arm thrown over his chest. _I could have died -_ he amends this – _I could have stayed dead_ and never known this. In a way he mourns that dreadful peace, gone now perhaps forever; _I could never be ready to die again, not now, not now that I've been alive, anyway._

  
  


Perhaps it's melodramatic of him; it almost certainly is. It occurs to him for the first time in a long time that after all, he's still a teenager, isn't he _allowed_ to be melodramatic? On the other hand, he suspects this is so much more than a fleeting thing, that this bright, blanketing love will not die out with adulthood, that the odds against staying with one person forever are odds he could easily defy after battling and winning against so much else. If he _did_ lose this, he thinks, only then would he be ready to die again.

  
  


His fingertips glide up Draco's arm with just a hint of nails and Draco shivers happily and snuggles in closer, making a humming noise of comfort, almost a purr, self satisfied as a cat. _Oh._ Harry feels tears prick his eyes again – like maybe now that he has cried once, he might start doing it all the time. It is such a relief to be able to cry that he feels a sudden curious urge to call up Cho Chang for the first time in forever and apologise for being such a dick to her. He remembers when he wondered how she had managed to feel so many things all at once. He thinks what a baby he must have been back then to wonder such a thing. Here he is, happy, blissful even, tired and rejuvenated all at once and he's on the verge of crying from a sudden excess of tenderness. He thought his heart had locked anything like that out hard, like there was only so much one could lose before the heart shuts down to save itself. He realises now how afraid he had been to love anyone, how he had practically assumed his having feelings must be fatal to anybody he cared about. Such was his track record. But this was something he could not lock out, this softening of the heart, this urge to protect – Draco curled against him like a soft shy animal, silently trusting and – though he would hardly admit it – in need of the fierce protection Harry now feels.

  
  


The tenderness washes through him like sunlight slanting across the floor, everything suddenly and gorgeously painted gold with it and for the first time since the war – or perhaps even longer – for the first time in what had to be years at least he takes a deep breath. A real breath, huge and slow and steady. The kind that pulls the chest out and draws in again like a bud bursting into sudden petals. It feels like this is the first chance he has even had to simply breathe. He looks down at the golden head resting on his chest, a lazily possessive arm thrown across his own ribs, holding him together, and he thinks _you you you – how can you have brought me peace like this? You with all your thunderstorms who used to spark fires of rage in my chest?_ But then this makes sense too, doesn't it? He has never managed to feel anything by halves when it comes to Draco – he had always hated him so much more than was really valid, always felt the need when angry to punch him so hard it fused them together It's always been all or nothing with them, no inbetweens, and he does not think he has ever been capable of being nothing, so yes – all those feeble jibes, the curious joy of vicious repartee – none of it could have touched him like it did if Draco had not been the one who could have always brought him this peace. _You,_ he thinks it like a song in his chest – _you, always you, along every curve in my path –_ he breathes in strength and his newly melted but finally beating heart warms out with that breath, singing joyously in the song of _you._

  
  


For so long now he has felt helpless in the face of destiny and other people's expectations, their ideas of him, the things they thought he had to do, the people they said he had to be – everyone it seems but Draco – Draco just hated him for his own sake, because of the idiot he had been in refusing his hand, and there is such relief in that. If he feels helpless now it is a different kind of helplessness, one that realises how much it has placed in the hands of somebody else, in making one person so much to him. He kisses Draco's head, terrified and exhilarated by how much he wants.

  
  


“What are you thinking?” Draco says, breath warm against his chest.

  
  


“Who says I'm thinking?”

  
  


“I know. It's strange. But I hear there's a first time for everything.”

  
  


“Shut up Malfoy. I was thinking I loved you, don't ruin it.”

  
  


“Hmm. Yes, I thought so.”

  
  


“Draco, do you -” he feels like an idiot, like a kid, he feels like a seventeen year old boy, foolish and stumbling, god it's awful – also possibly brilliant - “Do you love me?”

  
  


Draco wrinkles his face up. Harry can feel his shoulders tense.

  
  


“Umm -”

  
  


“No. Stupid question, don't -”

  
  


“I don't _not_ love you!” Draco blurts quickly, as afraid it seems of Harry's readiness to back off as Harry is to hear a negative answer. He had thought – from what they'd done, from the aching sweetness of this past hour's kisses, the shuddering in his chest that he had felt in Draco's own, from the brightness that may have tears in Draco's eyes when he looked at him, when they kissed, when Harry's lips pressed into his inner left arm – from the almost irrelevance of fucking – he had thought all that could have only been love but -

  
  


“I mean – I love you more than I might happily admit -” Draco babbles - “That is to say -” Harry finds himself laughing, his own laugh, without immediately recognising it, it's been too long -

  
  


“God, you know what Malfoy? Shut up,” he grins and takes his lips in a kiss before Draco can say anything more. At some point he breaks away to look at at Harry with bright, glittering, feverish eyes and says -

  
  


“Yes, alright damn you, yes,” and Harry smiles again and shakes his head because he knew already, should have known long ago just like he should have known what his own feelings were, but it's like he hasn't aged since he was eleven – not in terms of emotional maturity anyway– they had to get old so fast that parts of them that should have grown up never had a chance to. It doesn't matter now; it feels like he has been given a reprieve, a chance at life and it feels – touching Draco, talking to Draco, loving Draco in the days that follow – as though he feels the same. In the end when they emerge from the bedroom they hide nothing, not smiles, not tenderness, not _that blue stuff which crackles in the air when you look at each other_ as Luna puts it and Fleur, rolling her eyes at them, smiles and nods and whispers _oui oui tres bien ca suffit, quelle amour!_

  
  


So long spent hiding his obsession with Draco, it seems, so long turning it into something else without meaning to, so long pouring himself into little bottles of anger and rage and frustration, now he's smashing those bottles all over the house and they're going up in clouds of coloured sparkles. He's drowning in Draco and they can't keep their hands off each other and it's, it's so very -

  
  


“- it's like _finally,”_ Hermione nods, rolling her eyes and shaking her head, and then the doorbell rings and her parents are there and they can finally all smile for her as well.

  
  


__x__

**So, yes, I was gonna put Narcissa's chapter next but I was writing the two of them semi- simultaneously and this is the one that got finished first - hence the last line may seem a little bit sudden/ abrupt idk? But basically her chapter is going alongside this one in the time line - i.e. it starts just at the end of the Lucius chapter and ends where this one does. In theory I know what I'm doing. Um.**

**Also sorry! Major delay in getting this one out I know, I've been ill as heck, I'm ok now though and the next chapter should be way sooner :-) Hope everyone's keeping well :-)**

  
  



	18. Narcissa

  
  


**Narcissa**

  
  


Nobody sees her take a deep visible breath in the corridor as she closes the door behind her, nobody sees her close her eyes and gather herself together, but she has to do it outwardly sometimes, just a little. Not as much as other people perhaps; she has been practising this game since she was five and learning how to survive the world. Nobody ever sees her betray an expression if she can help it, nobody could reach into her thoughts however hard they tried. She remembers feeling the Dark Lord probing in there like he probed them all, remembers hiding even her revulsion at the attempts at invasion. She remembers most of all feeling frustration – _from the Dark Lord himself –_ when he got nothing out of her, not ever. She would not dream of wearing her heart anywhere anybody could see, not like these children all do, not to expose the people she cared about by making them a target like that; she has always known how evil works, how it hits you. Even when she was bleeding inside from how badly she could see her baby hurting nobody could have smelled the blood on her for trying.

  
  


And now she breathes out and nods and thinks they might be alright. She knows she will not really be gone long, but it is so very far to go, and distance can feel like time sometimes.

  
  


She almost feels guilty for how harsh she was to Lucius, almost but significantly not, not when she also feels contentment at the look in his eyes which allowed her to hope. Besides, guilt and regret should be saved for the children these days. Considering which, she takes three steps towards Draco's door and then stops, shakes her head minutely and turns her back – just for now – on that door as well.

  
  


She had seen the boys in the corridor not ten minutes before – seen enough to know better than to disturb them now. Curious, she thinks, to be the parent of a child (and how long before she keeps thinking in those terms, that word? Forever? When he's the age she is now?) - a child in love. Because he is of course, she has suspected it for years, and it would be blind and foolish both not to do quite a bit more than suspect it now. Thank god for the occulemency lessons that had hidden _that_ from Lord Voldemort if nothing else, thank god for that little bit of her capacity to internalise that she had managed to pass to him.

  
  


Strange, almost like grieving, to know that he loves this boy beyond anything in the world. Beyond anything she could give him or prepare him for. She feels bereft; maybe all mothers do, she does not care, does not like other mothers, does not, in fact, like children. It is almost like heartbreak to know you are no longer first in your child's life – but a selfish heartbreak, one that any kind parent has to hide, and strange because there is a happiness in it too, knowing how glorious love can be and perhaps it hasn't been like this before; perhaps her son, because he is after all who he is, covered love with a lot of scorn and loathing and rejection – she can understand that – but if it was not wonderful before, she thinks perhaps it can be now. She saw the way they looked at each other, she knows how it feels, what love looks like – and what she saw makes her happy for them. There is no option in choosing between the happiness and the heartbreak, no sensible option anyway. Something inside her glows golden with it.

  
  


So they're alright. Lucius will be alright – perhaps she thinks this second with a mite less certainty but it seems at least like a possibility. She collects herself again, and nods and apparates out.

  
  


In a house so full of people she is honestly proud of her success – in contacting the Ministry in the first place, in negotiating the portkey to the Australian ministry Headquarters, in accepting Shacklebolt's terms that he accompany her because she is – if not in any way criminal, then still on some kind of oblique Not-To-Be-Entirely-Trusted list. But he heard her request and has helped her with the spells and the transport required. She wonders if she _should_ have talked it through with someone else in the house, least of all Hermione, but suspects that her resolve could waver at the doubtless sensible objections they might all put up. The girl especially would probably be the first to try and talk her out of it, but the girl does not know what she wants and needs anywhere near as much as she thinks she does, and in this at least, Narcissa has been determined to override her.

  
  


This is how she finds herself at the Ministry headquarters, and then, a silent, watchful but respectful Minister for Magic by her side, taking a Muggle car to a small house on the outskirts of Sydney. The journey leaves her almost obviously wide eyed; she wonders if this is how a Muggle raised child discovering magic might feel – the vehicle with the wheels that move without magic or animal power – impossible for her to fathom – how _do_ they move without magic? The city around her – so much bigger in everything than London – and in truth, she never looked so hard at Muggle London – always knowing where to go for what she needed, it had been easy to ignore the rest of the city, not to look at the contraptions that shaped it – and then after years spent living in the country, the city had started to feel like something to avoid, but here she finds herself almost overwhelmed by the height of the buildings, the shine of metals and the flash of colours from moving screens and faster moving vehicles. It feels like being on another planet, she is almost afraid – enough for Shacklebolt to maybe sense it a little because he turns his head just enough to ask -

  
  


“Alright?”

  
  


“Mm,” she nods tightly, deciding that she will be.

  
  


“We're here.” The car pulls up to a white-fronted house with a red door, and she sits for a minute before getting out.

  
  


“I'll wait for you here,” she hears Shacklebolt say, as though from far away; she is so focussed on gearing herself up for this meeting to come. “I just want to say, I have the utmost respect for your doing this -” she can hear him sound awkward as he says it, but at the same time genuine, as if to say this is true what he says but he is surprised by her doing this – _Former Death Eater Consorts with Muggles!_ She can practically see the Rita Skeeter headline, no doubt suspecting her of nefarious purposes. Not that she ever even _was_ a Death eater, she sighs; she just provided them with tea and cake sometimes.

  
  


“Thank you Minister,” she nods. Her fingers feel awkward working the - _safety belt,_ he called it - but she makes it then reaches to open the door. Shacklebolt sees her struggle and reaches across her to open it and she is both grateful and humbled by this, face burning as she steps out.

  
  


She pauses a moment again just in front of the shiny red door, straightens her shoulders and lifts up her chin; looking perfect is her weapon. It occurs to her that too much perfection, too much pride could be off putting to these people, but she cannot lower these weapons, especially now, just from habit. She knocks sharply. After a moment that feels all the longer for holding her breath through it, a dark haired woman of around her own age opens the door. Her eyes are keen and clever and familiar but at the same time they look – to Narcissa – quite obviously lost, like she left the house forgetting to turn something off lost.

  
  


“Monica Wilkins?”

  
  


“Yes? How can I help you?” The voice is Hermione's, too. She wonders if everyone who has known one generation of a family first must always make these comparisons – if the children look at her and see bits of Draco in her face and voice – she wonders which bits those are.

  
  


“Can I come in? It's about your daughter.”

  
  


“I'm so sorry, you must have the wrong person, I don't have a daugh-”

  
  


“Her name's Hermione.” She does not really know why she says this; she _knows_ how an Obliviate works, but there is something in the lady's eyes that gives her the idea it _will_ work.She frowns, a furrow knitting across her forehead, and her mouth opens and closes -

  
  


“Come in,” she says, still frowning but standing aside to let Narcissa in, and ushering her into the long living room on the right, a pair of glass double doors at the end leading onto a stretch of bright garden pouring sunlight into the room.

  
  


“What did you say your name was?”

  
  


“- Cissy,” she says after a brief pause for thought - “Cissy Black.”

  
  


“English?”

  
  


“Yes. London – initially – you as well, I think?”

  
  


“Yes. I was born in Kensington but moved to the country very young. After I met my husband we came out to Australia to get away from it all -” she frowns as she speaks, like somebody reciting lines, a look of faint confusion on her face as though she is not quite sure where this history comes from – if she can remember really living it.

  
  


“How did you know?”she says suddenly.

  
  


“Know what?”

  
  


“Wendell and I couldn't have children. But we talked about it of course, what we'd call them – all of that – we always said that if we had a girl, we would call her Hermione. After _Winter's Tale –_ you know?”

  
  


“I'm afraid not.”

  
  


“The play? By Shakespeare?”

  
  


Narcissa shakes her head apologetically.

  
  


“You're _sure_ you're really English?” she laughs, the way she says _sure_ sounds so very Hermione it hurts - “She was a queen who turned into a statue, then came back to life- I loved that play, it was so full of magic – and Hermione – she was so strong and patient and clever, I thought – that's what I'd look for in a daughter, but -” she stops. “I really don't know why I'm telling you all this.”

  
  


Narcissa presses her lips together; she has to ask this, to do what she must in good conscience.

  
  


“Mrs Wilkins, I – I appreciate this is strange – a complete stranger walking into your house and asking you soemthing like this, but – are you happy in your life?”

  
  


“That -” _Monica_ looks a little shocked, or more affronted, by the question, but at the same time surprised with herself because she knows she is going to answer it - “That _is_ strange, but you know what's stranger?”

  
  


Narcissa raises an eyebrow.

  
  


“Well – I'm going to answer you, aren't I? You know – I know we've never met but it's like – it's like we have something in common, a shared interest, like – oh I don't know, it sounds ridiculous – am I happy? I mean – I can't complain – _shouldn't_ complain – goodness, I can't believe I'm saying this – life is _good,_ it is, but since you ask I can't say I haven't always felt like something was missing – I don't know – I've said this to Wendell, he says I'm just being daft but – it's like this life is a bit of a dream, isn't it? Like there's another me – or other me's out there somewhere living different versions of my life, and I don't know how I came into this one – it's like – everything around me could just shift and I'd be someone else – still me, but a me that did a lot of things differently. Maybe – like multiple reality theory, or maybe just everyone feels like this -”

  
  


“Maybe,” Narcissa says neutrally, then she whispers a word the lady does not understand and she stops and blinks fiercely and then stares at her -

  
  


“Oh,” she says. “Who are you? Where are we? What's happened? Where's Hermione?”

  
  


Narcissa smiles, nods, helps Jean into an arm chair and sits down beside her.

  
  


“What's the last thing you remember?” she asks gently.

  
  


“I was – at home -” she says slowly, memory coming back to her, slowly but without the rehearsed mechanical precision of the false memory - “We were talking – about what was happening, Hermione was trying to explain it to us but we already knew something was going on – with the bad wizards and the fights that were going on – or a war? As there a war? Are you a witch? Do you know Hermione?”

  
  


“I am,” she nods, she fights an urge to say _one of those bad wizards yes -_ “And yes. Your daughter was at school with my son. She changed your memories to protect you, and well – we're in Australia.”

  
  


“ _Australia?”_ she boggles - “ _Was?_ How long has it _been?”_

  
  


It is all so much harder to relate than she had thought it would be, but honestly she is also taking it better than so many would.

  
  


“It's been a year,” she begins and after they have called Hermione's father down and reversed the spell on him, she sits down with them both and relates as best she can the events of the past year leading up to where they are now and her deciding to do this for Hermione.

  
  


“She must have made an impression on you,” her father nods, half smiling.

  
  


“Yes -” there is more, there are words full of feeling that hover on Narcissa's lips, but they do not find their way out.

  
  


“I'm sorry what was your name again?” Jean peers at her curiously.

  
  


“Narcissa -” she says this time, half a pause and then “- Malfoy.”

  
  


“Yes I remember -” Jean nods suddenly - “Hermione mentioned a Malfoy – Draco was it? She said he was a -” she realises whats he is about to say and to whom and stops herself - “They – um – didn't get on,” she amends tactfully.

  
  


Narcissa nods. She remembers the things Draco had once had to say about Hermione too. She also remembers catching sight of them talking the evening he and Harry apparated back from Malfoy Manor.

  
  


“Everything changes,” she says simply, and realises as she says it how true it is. It had not occurred to her, in seeking to help Hermione, to think about whether or not she and Draco were friends and is surprised to find herself more selfless than she realised.

  
  


“Well, we're grateful,” he says.

  
  


“Yes,” she echoes - “But we'd like to get back to her as soon as we can – I don't suppose there's a quicker way than flying?”

  
  


“Flying?” Narcissa frowns, wondering why they expected to go by broom, then she remembers about the muggle flying machines. Gods but she feels like a child, foolish and ignorant. She remembers the day she caught sight of the Grangers in Diagon Alley and wonders if it felt the same for them then. “Oh,” she nods. “Yes, of course – have you – have you used a Portkey before?”

  
  


“Gonna be one of those weird magic things, isn't it?” the man smiles wryly, and Narcissa echoes it with a little smile of her own.

“Weird is relative,” she says as she rises to go and they follow. “Try getting in a car for the first time. Shall we?”

  
  


__x__

**I just read as I was finishing this that canonically Hermione gave her parents their memories back but eh what is canon? lol :-)**

**Also the line about Narcissa not being Death Eater but giving tea and cake to Death Eaters I sort of took from a line in a biography of Eva Peron that said "She wasn't a nazi herself she just made them tea sometimes" - something like that anyway, been waiting for aaages to use that line for Cissy :-)**

**Three chapters left! Next one might be a little while cause work is real hectic at the moment (I work in healthcare so go figure, arghh nightmare) but it _will_ happen cause I'm really looking forward to writing it. Hope y'all are keeping well and safe. :-)**


	19. George

  
  


**George**

  
  


It feels to George as though he is watching the world come back into colour all around him, life and light coming for the first time perhaps in forever to Number 12, like firework flowers blossoming across the night sky. Litle by little he watches them all, watches Luna steadily bring them all in on the job of brightening the place up which seems to have exploded into a full on mission. He smiles to see her in action – as though the intent is merely the decorating project itself and not the clean up of the whole lot of them that he can see going on behind her apparantly oblivious intent.

  
  


She's not oblivious at all, of course- he has come to realise this about Ravenclaws; sneakier than Slytherins when they want to be, even Luna. He finds that he has started to catalogue in his head some of the things he has seen from the people around him under the guise of Helping Luna Spring Clean.

  
  


He sees Hermione close her books, asking Luna if she's got this now – and Luna has – before hugging Narcissa Malfoy, appraising the others with a nod and going home with her parents, taking Ron with her, introducing him to the family for the first time as he goes to spend time with them; in return, she says, for all the time she has spent at the Burrow. He sees Draco snort a laugh at he expression on his mother's face when the girl hugs her, and he sees the wry smile Narcissa makes when Hermione's back is turned. He sees Hermione shake hands awkwardly with Draco before sighing and just enveloping him and Harry both in one simultaneous hug. She comes back every couple of days now to visit, bringing things for the house and for them all, smiling with a flush in her cheeks for the first time since the war.

  
  


He sees Harry and Draco tentatively joining in the clean up – Harry organising, to his surprise - and just as much to his surprise, Draco taking instruction on where to haul boxes and strip walls. He notices the moment that Lucius and Draco catch each other's eye, the one with a painting under his arm and the other peeling off ancient wallpaper with a spell that honestly looks quite fun. He sees the son meet his father's eye for the first time in years and the father for the first time in as long not look away. He sees Lucius put down the painting and enfold his son in a hug, wordless, both of them. He sees Harry and Narcissa in other corners of the room look away discreetly, just like he does.

  
  


So many moments, drawing together through the house like shimmering ribbons around a bag half embroidered. Draco laughing at Fleur for her feather duster and apron, asking her if she has any little forest friends who want to help her clean – a result of Harry's introducing them all to Disney movies – and by connection to television in general, much to Arthur's extreme delight.

  
  


Luna approaching Lucius on one of those first mornings he came down, with every appearance of utter disingeniousness – asking him if he knew the purpose of come weird dark magic artefact she had found in one of the upstairs bedrooms. He had, he admitted with what looked like real guilt – known. This had proved incredibly useful to the entire project as far as Luna claimed to be concerned, and after that she came to him constantly with untoward items, eventually coming to an agreement in conversation with the Malfoys and Harry to move as many of these curiosities as they did not dispose of to the Malfoy Manor collection, thereby de-cluttering the house, simultaneously letting Lucius be of use whilst gaining something in the process. It said a great deal perhaps, about the trust they were coming to have in the Malfoys, that questions of these items ever being used were never even raised.

  
  


Moments and seconds. Harry trying to make it look as though he was not watching Draco at breakfast, checking that he ate. Narcissa making it look as though she was not watching Harry watch Draco. Lucius noticing the boys holding hands one morning, opening his mouth and closing it again with a sigh and a nod. Arthur showing Lucius how the telephone worked. The way Lucius looked at Luna with an expression that changed his whole face into that of somebody he could grow to like. The look on Draco's face when his aunt handed him baby Teddy to hold and the way Harry laughed and took him off Draco quickly.

  
  


Slowly, steadily, with the help of all of these people, George feels himself beginning to do something that feels like smiling, even if he does still feel guilty about it every time. He feels like the one left behind sometimes, the one who is almost rudely refusing to be fixed.

  
  


In the end there are three people who give him the kick he needs.

  
  


The first is Angelina Johnson, who Floos in one afternoon quite out of the blue and insists on taking him out to lunch. He doesn't know what makes her appear, what makes her think of him but she doesn't leave him guessing- it's not like her to beat around the bush. She talks to him about Fred, first and foremost – the thing everyone else does not seem to dare talk to him about as though it would hurt him, as though he is capable of hurt. As though he does not think about Fred anyway. Angelina does not seem to care if the memories hurt; she throws them onto the table with the salad bowls and beer mugs.

  
  


She's applying to the Harpies, she tells him; it's Quidditch or nothing. Do you remember that game when – by the time she's done, he's actually laughing. They'll have to fly together again some time. Dance together too – remember the Yule Ball? Yes, she went with Fred, but to be honest she lost track of which of them she danced with and when that night. She was fairly sure they were pranking her somehow, and they were, of course they were.

  
  


He finds himself telling her how he cannot produce a Patronus any more, not when Fred was there in every happy memory he ever had. She glares at him for it, asks him if the memories are sad now, then? He starts to say of course, how could they not be, and she shrugs him down, doesn't make the past sad for what the present is. Would they have been crying then instead of laughing if they had known what the future was going to be? Happy memories aren't finite, she says, some of them haven't been made yet. When she says goodbye they agree to meet again soon.

  
  


Then there's Luna of course. One afternoon she comes to him about the colour scheme for the upstairs sitting room; the downstairs one is classy enough she says, she let Narcissa call the plans for that one – this one she's thinking something fun – something colourful, rainbows and beanbags – didn't they have a bunch of decorating stuff in storage from when they were first decorating the shop? They do, it's at the back of the shop; thanks for that, she says, as though George actually _did_ offer to go over there and fetch them for her.

  
  


But he does go. He takes Ron, and somehow or other Draco. Draco used to be banned from the shop on principle and so, he says, sticking his nose in the air in his old way – it's about time, don't you think? The shop is dark when they arrive, and even the three of them casting _Lumos_ somehow only glows eerily throughout the shelves, casting bars from the shadows of the stairs across the floors. Ron heads to the back and Draco wanders curiously between the rows, and George – George stands in the darkened joke shop and feels something immense and awful roil up in his chest like a whale breaking the surface. He doesn't know what it is – if it was the fact that Angelina made him able to feel something again – a little hurt, a little hope – or if it's the way Draco looks at him and nods with so much empathy when he hears the hitch George makes in his throat – but something. Something unlocks in his chest amongst the unexploded fireworks and trick candies, and he stands in the aisles and starts to cry. He cries until he's kneeling, half puddled on the joke shop floor, half screaming with the pain in his half heart.

  
  


When he can focus again, there's a hand on his shoulder and Draco handing him a tissue silently, and he is more grateful for that silence than he could say. He takes the offered hand that pulls him back to his feet and after a moment he sees Ron come out of the back of the shop, nodding at the sight of George getting a hug off of Malfoy.

  
  


“Yeah?” is all Draco says when George steps away, and he nods, glad the kid didn't ask him anything stupid.

  
  


“Yeah,” he nods. Draco nods back and goes to take some of the stuff Ron is holding off him and George can hear that when Ron says -

  
  


“Thanks mate,” - that he is thanking Draco for a lot more than just helping him to carry stuff.

  
  


“You know,” Ron says, breaking the chance for an awkward silence to take root - “You ever think about re-opening this place, I'm game.”

  
  


“Yeah?”

  
  


“Yeah.”

  
  


“I concur,” Draco agrees, looking round. “This place is great. Just what the Wizarding World needs right now.”

  
  


George looks at him for a searching moment, trying to detect a hint of sarcasm. There isn't any, and he nods.

  
  


“Maybe,” he nods. “Maybe,” and then to Ron who stops on his way out the shop to pick a gadget off the shelf - “And that's still ten galleons to you, mate.”

  
  


-x-

  
  


Funny, how things keep happening, George thinks; first Angelina, then the shop and a few days after that a call from Ginny at the Burrow – almost as though these things are meant to happen. Ginny asks him to come home, to sort out the picture of Fred in the family portrait hung over the fireplace.

  
  


“He's being utterly obnoxious,” she says, hands on hips when George Floos in. “Thanks for the soot,” she adds, waving her hand in front of her from the cloud he kicks up coming in.

  
  


“Clean the chimney then you wretch.” He gives her a hug. “When you say _utterly obnoxious -”_

  
  


“A pain in the arse,” Ginny clarifies - “A knobhead. A mega dick. Honestly, I don't know how much clearer you need me to be. He won't shut up, keeps calling me names, singing that rude song about the turtle day and night and I swear to shit Georgie, every time Luna and I try to – I mean try to do _anything –_ if you know what I mean, he just – seriously -”

  
  


“Ughff, fair you know, can't blame him for that. I would too.”

  
  


“Shut up. Just talk to him, okay – please? He keeps asking for you anyway.”

  
  


She stomps off and leaves him with the portrait he has been trying not to look at all this time. Fred comes to the front of the frame and peers out as though it's a camera lens.

  
  


“Georgie? Dead Georgie? That you?”

  
  


“Who are you calling dead Fred? You're the dead one bro, not me.”

  
  


“Heh heh, dead Fred, never gets old, like me I guess -”

  
  


“Too soon Freddie, too soon.”

  
  


“Anyway – sure about that are you? Here I am, merrily interfering with a couple of ladies' love life and I hear there's you – wandering the old Black house like a ghost, aren't you Georgie?”

  
  


“I -”

  
  


“Don't “I -” me little brother, I wasn't kidding when I called you dead you know, and that's weird isn't it, cause I usually am. Kidding, I mean. Not dead. Though I guess these days -”

  
  


“Uff - shut up Fred, you're too chatty for a dead person.”

  
  


“Yeah? You're too quiet for a living one.”

  
  


“I can't do this Fred.”

  
  


“What? Stay alive? It's not that hard – mind you – okay, yeah it is quite hard. Anyways, you gotta -”

  
  


“Oh no, not you as well -”

  
  


“Not me what?”

  
  


“This is the part where you tell me to stay alive for you, isn't it? I've had it from just about everyone else. Ginny, Mum, Dad; I don't think I can hear it from you as well -”

  
  


“Gobby, aren't you?”

  
  


“You just said I was too qui -”

  
  


“I was gonna say, stay alive for you, George, but okay, yeah I mean me too – you think I can enjoy my afterlife if I'm always having to worry about you? I'm supposed to be causing havoc not chatting away inside your head.”

  
  


“I – I thought I was just going mad.”

  
  


“Oh you are. Just happens I'm there too. Like one of us can have some madness without us both.”

  
  


“I – I don't know who to be, Freddie – I'm just – we're – we're FredandGeorge aren't we? Gred and Forge? How do I unravel that? How can I be me when we're us?”

  
  


“That is – you know that is not a healthy relationship my dude.”

  
  


“Can't help it Fred, we've been us since before we were born.”

  
  


“Actually I was around a half hour longer, it's time for you to hang around a half century more.”

  
  


“That is – nowhere near a fair exchange.”

  
  


“Tough titty. Look. I wanna go back to school, you should hear some of the plans I'm hatching with Peeves. You _will_ hear about them. Just come back with me one more time, eh?”

  
  


“What?”

  
  


“Hogwarts. You, me, Monday. I'll see you left of the great staircase? Okay? Okay.”

  
  


And with that Fred goes silent and George knows he's left the painting.

  
  


-x-

  
  


That Monday he Portkeys into Hogwarts by arrangement with McGonagall, who it seems has never left. She nods at him as he wanders in and then goes back to manning a full team of construction workers. The place is eerie without students and half ruined; he never heard his footfalls on the floor before. He still has that feeling like every third footstep is going to send him falling through the floor, like a step that isn't there. When he rounds the corner before the grand staircase he stops still for a moment.

  
  


It's Fred.

  
  


Standing at the foot of the staircase, looking upwards and away from him. His heart stops, stutters, lurches. Gods it was a mistake, a mistake this whole time! He should have known. His heart had kept telling him it wasn't real, after all. He should have listened, he -

  
  


“Fred!” he yells. His brother turns. His heart plummets.

  
  


It's not Fred. It's _Percy._ How many more times does he have to do this? Sometimes he hates every single one of his brothers for looking like Fred from behind.

  
  


“Sorry,” Percy says. His glance skitters away from George in genuine regret - “I wish -” he stops. He wishes he _was_ Fred. Of course he does.

  
  


“Actually,” he says with a nod, “I always _did_ wish I was Fred, you know. Or you, or Gin. Or Bill or Charlie. Sometimes even Ron. These days, a lot Ron. You all don't know how how lucky you were – are -” he gives a deep sigh - “ _Georgie,”_ he says heavily, and to George's surprise he hugs him hugely. It's a very un- Percy thing to do but he can't say he hates it.

  
  


“Where have you been, Perce?”

  
  


“Actually I never left” Percy gives a sweeping look around that indicates the whole of Hogwarts - “I mean – I have _left –_ but I've been helping McGonagall organise the re-build. Well it was better than working for the Ministry, and I couldn't come home, not after -”

  
  


“- Fred,” George finishes for him, and gods it's good to finish somebody's sentence for them.

  
  


“So why are you here – now?”

  
  


“Actually Fred asked me to come. Apparently he was bugging Ginny no end from the portrait -”

  
  


“- above the fireplace - yeah me too -”

  
  


“-and he told me to come here today, this spot, this time – you too?”

  
  


“Yeah. Dickhead.”

  
  


“Played us,” Percy scratches his head ruefully.

  
  


“Why, do you think?”

  
  


“Guess he figured I had something to say to you?”

  
  


“Do you?”

  
  


“Ughff.” Percy sits down heavily on the bottom step of the staircase, George takes the spot on his left and somehow or other that feels okay. He notices that there are bags under Percy's eyes,his sleeves are rolled up and his hands are filthy; he's not just been helping organise the re-build, he's been pitching in.

  
  


“I suppose _sorry_ really doesn't cut it? How are the others, by the way?”

  
  


“Oh you know. Getting there, getting there.”

  
  


“I heard about the Malfoy trial. You all still at Grimmauld place, yes?”

  
  


“Yeah. You'll never guess who Harry Potter's -”

  
  


“Dating. Draco Malfoy, obviously.”

  
  


“Bloody hell!”

  
  


“It was incredibly boring being me in school you know. Sometimes there was nothing else better to do than notice shit. Are they happy?”

  
  


“Happy? Oh – that. I think they're getting there, yeah.”

  
  


“Good.”

  
  


“Sorry for what, Percy, come on.”

  
  


“I mean -” Percy plays with his fingers, tearing at papers he isn't holding - “It was my fault, wasn't it? That he died. Fred. That's why I couldn't come home. Why I couldn't talk to any of you. I thought the best thing I could do was try and be of use here.”

  
  


“Nah, back up back up, _your_ fault? How'd you reckon that?”

  
  


“Well I was there, wasn't I? When he died; if I hadn't distracted him he might not have -”

  
  


“Distracted him? What'd you do? Get your dick out and start windmilling?”

  
  


Even Percy cracks a smile.

  
  


“No I – I told him I was handing in my resignation to the Ministry -”

  
  


“Mid battle? That's – that's actually pretty funny, Perce.”

  
  


Percy snorts a grim, sad laugh -

  
  


“S'what Fred said. He asked me if I had actually made a joke – said I hadn't made once since I was – actually it was the last thing he ever said.”

  
  


George stares down at the floor for a moment, eyes stinging, then he snorts a huff of a laugh out of his nose, then his shoulders jerk with it, and then before he knows it has happened or even has to remind himself how to do it he's laughing, laughing his head off with Percy looking at him in that old one – eyebrow raised, you-are-not-as-funny-as-you-think-you-are way that used to crack him and George both up. Seeing it just makes George laugh harder.

  
  


“I thought you'd be mad or – hate me or -”

  
  


“Nah,” George wheezes - “No way Perce that's fucking funny. I get it now. Why Fred sent us here. I'm glad Percy. I'm glad it was like that – the last thing he said was to laugh at you, now _that's_ funny.”

  
  


“Well in that case – you can charge me half when you re-open the shop.”

  
  


“Half? Are you mental? It' three times the rate for you, you twonk; actually fuck it, you can shop for free – it's what Fred would have wanted.”

  
  


“He would have said I -”

  
  


“- needed all the funny you can get yeah. Do me a favour Percy?”

  
  


“Of course.”

  
  


“Visit. Visit more. More in this case, meaning _at all_ because you suck, but a lot okay? Give me some sentences to finish, alright?”

  
  


“Alright.” They stand up together, in unison, without discussing it.

  
  


“You – wanna come see what I've been doing?”

  
  


“Are you shitting me? I'm not that bored yet.” George goes silent. “Give me a bit, okay? I wanna just do something here.”

  
  


“Alright.” Percy puts a hand on his shoulder and indicates the way he's ending off up the stairs.

  
  


George looks around him at the foyer, the grand starway, the place where it happened, the place where he died.

  
  


“Gonna live, Fred,” he whispers to the ashes and the rubble - “Gonna live, fuck it. Gonna re-open the shop with Ron, make mum and dad laugh again. Gonna make them all laugh again. I'm gonna finish Percy's sentences for him; god knows he needs some help- he's alright, is Percy. Gonna join in shit again, not just watch. Gonna take the mickey. Gonna give them shit. Heh, Gonna get it on with Johnson maybe, think about the future, make good memories again. It's time Freddie, it's bloody well time.”

  
  


He clenches his fist, gives the stone banister a light punch, takes a deep breath and blinks hard.

  
  


“Goodbye Freddie,” he whispers.

  
  


There's no reply, and that's alright.

  
  


__x__

  
  


**Well that's that, I'm so big headed I made myself cry :-P I feel like that's most ends tied now, just two more chapters, next one's Draco.**

  
  


**No I don't know any actual rude songs about turtles, but I could imagine ways they could go :-)**

  
  



	20. Draco

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


**Draco**

  
  


In a way, he thinks, perhaps he was always headed for this; he cannot remember a time before Potter, maybe there never was such a time. He has heard that name since he can remember, like every thread in the fabric of existence has always been pulling him to this point.

  
  


_Is this real?_

  
  


He gets a shock hearing himself voice the thought, waking up one morning to light streaming in from the newly shining windows of what has become Their Room. The other day he even heard Luna refer to it as _Harry and Draco's_ room and his chest burst and tightened repeatedly in a flurry of feelings he was not quie sure how to name. The last time he remembers thinking this was about two years ago; he can remember it exactly. Not long after his father had been sent to Azkaban and the Dark Lord appeared in their house as though taking his place. He remembers waking up one morning, as he has just woken now and then, like now, after the first few moments of neutrality, remembering where he was and what was happening in his life. Back then it had been a sick dizzying feeling of unreality, like all of this, this worry, this tension, this sudden new expectation of threat and pain – could not possibly have so suddenly replaced a life which up until then had felt entirely his own. He still remembers that gruesome realisation that all illusion he had ever had that he had any control over what happened to him was false, of knowing there was nothing he could do, no decision he could make that would be the right one.

  
  


This is so different. This time the feeling comes with a smile, with the late August sunlight streaking across the bed and and the warmth of a lazy heavy arm thrown around him, part content, part casual, part possessive. He likes the easy possessiveness, is embarrassed to know in his heart how much he wants it; _you,_ he thinks, _somehow – it's always been you._

  
  


Since he was a child. It feels like he has never not known the name _Harry Potter._ Like he was one of his own family (actually they are a little related, he followed it on the tree in the tapestry just the other night as he had finished stitching Sirius and Andromeda back into the fabric) – he cannot remember a time before he heard this idiot talked about; he twists a little in bed to look and smile, this idiot who feels so ridiculously like home to him now. He remembers with a faint internal snort how he had decided when he was about five that Harry Potter was going to be his very best friend when they went to school together. He remembers his excitement at learning they would be in the same year. In his six year old head, they had been sorted into Slytherin together, been the best of friends all the way through school. He had imagined them on the same Quidditch team, sharing a cauldron at Potions, sharing a dorm room, making mischief, having fun. He had imagined it so hard it had almost happened already by the time school even started.

  
  


And then, somehow it hadn't turned out that way. He hardly knew what had happened, but somehow or other Potter, the _famous_ Harry Potter – had refused his proffered friendship. He didn't know how it could have happened, how that was even _allowed._ It took him years to realise that he might even have done something wrong, how he could have failed to impress. A _Malfoy_ never failed to impress, wasn't that what his father had always said? He had felt ashamed of how much it stung, a shame which had grown into something bordering on heartbreak, a confused and horrifying sense of rejection which he had quickly decided was hate rather than let it keep stinging.

  
  


He had _enjoyed_ hating Potter and when he realised – he supposed it was some time in their second year – looking back it may have been connected to playing Quidditch together after all – that Potter was enjoying their enmity just as much as he was – it had almost made up for their not being friends. It had not occurred to him until maybe three years later that he had been half way in love with him the whole time.

  
  


It seems obvious now; they were always destined to end up here.

  
  


“Yes,” Harry says, and he starts a little; he had not meant to voice the question out loud, he feels half a jerk of embarrassment but Harry kisses the back of his neck, pulls him a little closer, runs his fingers across the sensitive part of his hip and soothes the surprise he feels at having dared whisper it out loud - “ - the realest. The best. Most real thing there is.” He punctuates each phrase with kisses , until Draco rolls over.

  
  


“Honestly, Potter -” he drawls, morning heavy and sleepy-warm - “Your grammar is atrocious.”

  
  


They can't stop touching and that's alright with Draco; they were meant for this too, he thinks, to fit together, to curl around and about and inside of each other like they were made out of the same stuff and need fusing back together. That or they're just seventeen and horny as hell, because they've been itching for this for so long after all. Not even just sex, although gods it's constant and incredible, but to wander too far apart feels as though it strains on a thread Draco cannot afford to unravel to a longer distance just yet.

  
  


The truth – one he does not know how it took him so long to work out– is that they're obsessed with each other and have been since first year; they have watched, stalked, orbited each other since the moment they met, always coming back to rest just as close together as they could. He thinks perhaps half the reason it was always so vicious between them was on account of them resisting that pull and now that they have given into it they crash together so hard and so often it leaves them both reeling.

  
  


This past fortnight ought to feel, like a dream, he thinks; instead it just feels like the only real time he has spent since fifth year. His heart wobbles at the idea – it's been sneaking up on him over the last few days with increasingly noisy steps – that he might actually be starting to feel happy. It's terrifying.

  
  


There's a lot of it going around though. He sees it on Hermione's face now when she visits. He saw happiness – and a hint of something even deeper – in George when he returned from Hogwarts, bearing their eighth year Hogwarts letters. He saw it in Molly Weasleys sobs when Percy visited them for the first time – happiness, ready to spark in everyone.

  
  


The letters were something of a surprise on several different levels. Not so much that McGonagall knew exactly who was living together – this apparently is a must have talent for any Hogwarts head – but that an eighth year was happening at all. Somehow – easily enough, perhaps, in the trauma and nightmare of their seventh year – they had all rather forgotten that they had none of them quite finished school, forgotten that they might still be children, in that respect, at least for maybe a year more. The letters catch them at a point where Hermione and Ron are visiting; somehow it seems obvious that they did, as though McGonagall would have known that too – and they all of them gather in the newly rainbow upstairs living room to discuss it, the children – if that's what they still get to be, sat around on the sofas and the adults perched around the corners, letting it be known that they are there for support but that the choice is up to the ones holding the letters.

  
  


“I didn't even think of it.” Harry shakes his head.

  
  


“You wouldn't,” Draco drawls, draped across the majority of their sofa, head on Potter's knee, repeatedly poking it and wriggling and positioning Luna's squishy cushions against said knee to try and make it into a more comfortable pillow - “I bet you thought _Saviour of the Wizarding World_ was a qualification already – like they'd let you skip all final exams just for -”

  
  


“Just for saving the Wizarding World?” Harry raises an eyebrow - “Okay I suppose I kind of did. Shut up, Malfoy.”

  
  


“No he has a point though,” Hermione nods thoughtfully from her own sofa; Draco notices that she and Ron are sharing it very fairly, his lip curls into a comforting smirk, knowing Potter is well pushed up into a corner against the arm rest - “No offense, Harry, but you _don't_ get immediate dispensation just for -”

  
  


“Saving the Wizarding World?”

  
  


“Draco, punch Harry for me will you? I can't reach from here?”

  
  


Draco obliges with an elbow jab -

  
  


“You heard her,” he shrugs when Harry grumbles an _Oi!_ of protest.

  
  


“Now then -” Molly interjects - “If you lot can't discuss this like adults -”

  
  


“That's the point though isn't it, mum?” Ron nods - “We _were_ adults? Weren't we? Now we're being asked to be kids again – it's like – do we even know how to do that?”

  
  


“I don't think we should see it like that -” Hermione frowns - “It's not that we're being asked to be _kids –_ just to finish our education. I for one am going to go back, regardless of the rest of you.” She nods definitely.

  
  


“I think that's the thing though, isn't it?” Harry nods - “We _should_ all be able to decide for ourselves? Regardless of what the others are doing? I know we're all close – we've been living together ever since – well but – it could never be forever. On the other hand -”

  
  


“On the other hand we don't want to be back in separate dorm rooms, in different houses, unable to spend night times with the people we love do we?” Luna offers - “Not when we've been fucking all summer.”

  
  


The adults ranged around the room all splutter and look down at the floor, pleading it for a kindly opening up.

  
  


“I agree with Luna,” Draco tries to nod, finding it trickier lying down than he had expected - “Sorry guys -” he cranes his neck over the sofa to indicate the adults. “We _have_ been fucking all summer and we should say it. I for one -” he jerks his chin defiantly - “Have been fucking Harry Potter on a frequent basis, and I'm not afraid to say it.”

  
  


There is a strangled sound from Lucius in the corner by the piano and a choked noise from Harry. Thankfully Ginny saves them all – except Draco - by rolling her eyes from her curled up spot on the sofa, head rested on Luna's shoulder.

  
  


“You do know that would have been a much more dramatic announcement if we didn't all know that already right, Malfoy?”

  
  


“Besides it's not entirely accurate is it?” Luna smiles benignly - “He mostly fucks you and we all know it.”

  
  


“It's true and you should say it” Ron nods grimly - “You guys _need_ to sort your muffling charms out.”

  
  


“Potter they're ganging up on us, help.”

  
  


“Yeah shut up, you guys. Gin you're not the quietest either.”

  
  


“Sorry not sorry Harry but Luna does some amazing things with -”

  
  


“ _Is_ this really entirely relevant?” Lucius cuts in, pained.

  
  


“Thank you Malfoy.” Ron and Draco both snort at the sight of their fathers doing a brief hand shake of solidarity.

  
  


“I mean it _is_ sort of relevant though -” Draco persists. “Think about it. Do we really want to go back to furtive broom cupboards and empty classrooms again? Being treated like kids after everything we've gone through? Hasn't this summer made an argument for inter-house solidarity?”

  
  


“Inter-house bloody something anyway,” Ron nods.

  
  


“Okay, and I think once again Draco comes perilously close to making the relevant point -” Hermione nods - “We _can't_ go back to the House system the way it used to be, actually I've been saying this all summer – even before the lot of us living together proved that we need to embrace our differences – not literally embrace, Luna please put your Weasley down – the system is divisive and unfair and I think especially after everything that happened in the war Slytherins might be specifically at risk -”

  
  


“Yeah – should have said something about this before -” George shifts from his slouched position against the wall. “I talked to Old McGonagall about this, and she's actually disbanding the house system at least for the time being – definitely for your year. She suggested one amalgamated House – being that it'll be a lot smaller than the usual years -”

  
  


“- from the people we lost,” Harry nods solemnly.

  
  


“It's not even so much that -” George nods - “A lot of people – especially the Slytherins, have already made it clear they won't be coming back – there's been a lot of -”

  
  


“- anti – Slytherin sentiment,” Draco nods, “I know. Pansy's whole family had to move to their Holiday Home in Bulgaria, she got so much grief for -”

  
  


“-wanting to give me up to the Dark Lord,” Harry nods. “If I make a public announcement that she made a valid point there do you think people will let her off the hook?”

  
  


“ _Valid point?”_ Ginny scrunches her face up.

  
  


“Well -” Harry shrugs - “ _I_ gave myself up in the end didn't I? Who decided I was hero and she was a villain? Rita Skeeter?”

  
  


“Speaking of which – and I know this isn't quite relevant -” Arthur cuts in apologetically - “But after quite a lot of negotiating I finally got Shacklebolt to force Skeeter and her people off of their little campsite – the Manor's clear again Malfoy – whenever you need.”

  
  


“Look, should I speak to the Parkinsons?” Harry turns to Draco in his own aside - “Maybe it would -”

  
  


“It won't -”

  
  


“I could -”

  
  


“They wouldn't appreciate your help either father, no it's all arranged – Pans is going to Durmstrang next year with a lot of my class. I'm afraid we're none of us renowned for our bravery. We're not Gryffindors.”

  
  


“I think -”

  
  


“Nobody asked, Potter.” Draco waves away the horrifying possibility that Potter might call him _brave_ in front of everyone by announcing before he even realises he was going to -

  
  


“Besides, I've decided, I'm with Granger – I'm going back. We none of us deserve either dispensation or judgement. We just need to finish our education like sensible witches and wizards.”

  
  


“Here here Malfoy!” Ron almost cheers - “I'm on if the rest of you are – Harry?”

  
  


“Well but – we all get the same common room? I mean – what about Luna? She'll be going into year seven and honestly – I don't mean to get sentimental – shut up in advance, Malfoy – but I don't want to lose any of you – even for a term.” He does not say _I've lost enough_ but they can all hear it in his voice, as though the ghosts of his parents, Sirius, Remus and the others are ranged around the room with the other adults watching.

  
  


“Actually I've been moved up a year,” Luna chimes in.

  
  


“You _have?”_ Hermione sounds scandalised - “That's a thing?”

  
  


“Apparently I'm _exemplarar_ y -” Luna waves her Hogwarts letter gently - “Says so right here.”

  
  


“Give me that!” Hermione grabs it.

  
  


“Okay. Right.” Harry nods, gathering himself together whilst Hermione huffs over the documented evidence of Luna's brilliance - “Together then,” he looks around the room - “Together, like we should be, and if it's broom closets it's broom closets – it's only three terms.”

  
  


“These English -” Fleur murmurs from the chaise longue - “Always so obsessed with the sex they are.”

  
  


They glance at her, having forgotten she was there before smiling and shrugging back at each other and toasting to _together then! w_ ith the drinks stand that appears in the middle of them, the house offering up its congratulations.

  
  


-x-

It is not like any any summer he has ever spent before school, Draco thinks, but at least for the first time in three years this is a good thing. All of a sudden it feels as though too much has happened too fast and now here they are, two weeks before the start of a new term, looking over book lists and arranging shopping trips. It all feels poised to trip him up with the suddenness and near shock of it. He realises for the first time what a stolen season this has been – what a break from _real life –_ whatever that is. All of a sudden his parents are poised to move back to the manor, Bill and Fleur are headed back to Shell Cottage and Harry is trying to engage him in conversations about whether or not he wants to stay living at Grimmauld Place, or if _they_ (he finds himself gulping on the immediately implied togetherness) – should be looking for somewhere to live, just the two of them. He never even asked Draco about wanting this, and it is only the assumption behind this that makes Draco even halfway wonder if he does. He had still half envisioned himself returning to the Manor with his parents. In the end they come to a tentative decision to stay here, with the place looking so bright now, so inviting, it seems a shame to put all their recent work on it to waste.

  
  


But. Everyone else seems so ready to move on that he supposes he better _had_ be ready. One day, all of a sudden they're in Madam Malkin's getting fitted for eighth year robes – which are _hideous_ Draco announces, containing slight hints of red and green, yellow and blue. Ghastly. Even so he finds himself catching Harry's eye as they stand getting pinned and snorting at a memory.

  
  


“What?” Harry asks.

  
  


“Remember the first time you came in here?” the smile that tugs at his lips feels a little ghostly, as though those little first – year – to be's are still in here with them - “It was the first time we met,” Draco adds, unnecessarily.

  
  


“Gods I was so clueless,” Harry sighs - “You made me feel like a complete idiot.”

  
  


“Just telling it like it is Potter -” Draco grins - “And I wasn't even trying.”

  
  


“I _really_ didn't like you,” Harry nods to himself, frankly rather fondly.

  
  


“Well I thought you were a total dork.”

  
  


“You were right. I thought you were a git and also -”

  
  


“Also?” he raises an eyebrow.

  
  


“Rather amazing. Glorious even.”

  
  


“And now?”

  
  


“Still a git. Still glorious.”

  
  


“Soppy git,” Draco shakes his head and Potter leans in to kiss him, forgetting about the pins and threads swirling around them - “Pins!” Draco yells - “Pins! Pins!” as they both get prickled and pull back into position, chuckling.

-x-

  
  


The closer the start of term creeps the less ready Draco finds himself feeling; but with everyone else apparently both ready and excited for it he does not mention this to anyone, even Harry. Harry, in fact, seems to be avoiding serious conversation as much as possible which suggests to Draco that he does not have time or want to hear about any misgivings he might have, which just serves to make him tetchy about the whole thing, annoyed at Potter's readiness to move on when he isn't and worried that he is going to be left behind. It's going to be so different for them, he thinks, the heroes returning after the war, especially _Saint Potter_ as he snaps at him one afternoon when trying to point this out, Harry giving him a face like he hates him again, grumping _don't call me that_ and stomping out. They don't understand, don't realise that it won't be like that for him. He'll be skulking back a villain, who has, for reasons not all the students will understand, been given some kind of reprieve. Every day finds him a little more tense about it, a little sulkier with Harry and at the same time with his parents whose concerned and repeated inquiries as to whether or not he's _sure_ this is the right thing for him are not helping. Having to say _yes_ to them time and time again just makes him a little bit less _sure_ every time.

Then one morning, less than a week before term is due to start he is on the verge of rounding the corner into the kitchen when he hears voices raised sharply and pauses in the corridor.

  
  


“That's just it Hermione! I don't know if I _can_ do this!”

Harry sounds furious, exasperated, his voice straining like he is groaning deeply on the inside. Draco is immediately angry that whatever _this_ is, he has not seen fit to have this conversation with _him._ His old jealousy of Harry's perfect little friends flares up like a match. He does not hear what Hermione says next, just Harry replying -

  
  


“Of course he doesn't know! I can't tell him! I have to be stronger than this don't I? For everyone. As bloody usual.”

  
  


“Harry it's not your job to -”

  
  


“It is though isn't it?” - bitterly - “It always is. I have to be the adult. I've had to since I was twelve. Sometimes I just get so bloody _sick_ of it -”

  
  


There's the sound of something getting kicked, the bang muffling Hermione's voice.

  
  


“Yeah right, like I could tell him that. I think you all forget how much I used to hate him. It's all just happened so fast, I'm only seventeen, Hermione, did you remember? Cause I'd sure as hell forgotten. It's too much – I can't -”

  
  


  
  


There's a painful pause in which Draco's heart feels like it freezes over -

  
  


“-I can't _do_ this anymore – I can't tell him -”

  
  


Draco's finger nails cut crescents into his palms for clenching so hard and he cannot wait to find out _exactly_ what it is Harry cannot break to him; it seems obvious enough and here he thought – he almost lets out a hysterical laugh – he'd really thought Harry Potter, sodding saviour of the wizarding fucking world cared about _him,_ Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, Failure. He'd been so _stupid,_ the last great fuck up in a long long line of stupid fuck ups. He thinks about the last kiss to the back of the neck Harry had given him just last night before he fell asleep, remembers calling him _Harry_ in a hushed whisper as though it was something too intimate almost to voice. _Draco,_ he had whispered back in that echoing voice that sounded so very like love he had believed it – _beautiful,_ he had whispered, _My Draco – sunshine and starlight all at once –_ he had called him. It catches inDraco's memory and the bitterness of it burns him inside.

  
  


There's only one thing he can do; be the coward he always knew he was and run away. He can picture all that ice creeping out from his heart, turning him into a statue of himself and shattering apart, damaging everyone around him with the splinters. He walks briskly, not quite running, out of the house and slamming the door savagely behind him.

  
  


__x__

**Penultimate chapter! I realise this was an evil place to leave it so the next one shouldn't be toooo long a wait :-)**


	21. Harry

  
  


**Harry**

  
  


When he stops to think about how good it feels it terrifies him. So he doesn't stop to think, just lets the weeks roll by in careless blissful happiness, loving and feeling loved. It's amazing. Brilliant. He had never imagined anything like it – allowing himself to be so wrapped up in somebody else, to take and give such pleasure without having to worry about about the fate of the whole world at the same time. He would never in his wildest dreams have imagined it would be Draco who could open his heart up like this, who could consume him like this. He should have known. He should always have guessed it could only be Draco.

  
  


And then, all of a sudden there's a plan for the future – or the imminent future at any rate – he hadn't let himself think about it but now it's there – school and graduation and the lot of them branching off into their own couple groupings and homes. All of a sudden he sort of _has_ to think about how good the last few weeks have felt, how _right_ it has all finally seemed. He has to face the sheer terror of it and honestly, it breaks him into night sweats for thinking about it, frightens him worse than facing down Voldemort.

  
  


He finds that he has to acknowledge – just about every time he looks at Draco and sometimes even when he doesn't – how utterly in love with him he is. He then has to follow this thought through to the panicky conclusion that everyone he has ever loved has died. That every single time one of them left him he had sworn to himself he would not open up his heart that quickly again. Because he always has, hasn't he? He has always accepted all the good things that ever came his way, friendship, affection, attention even. It had taken him _minutes_ to decide he wanted to make a family with Sirius, moments – not many – to know that he trusted Remus. There had never been a time when he did not love and respect Dumbledore, almost as a parent, even after he realised everything the man had put him through. One by one they had all abandoned him, just like his parents, time and again he had berated himself for putting his trust in their love, swearing this time was the last. He had only ever been able to turn his heart off when it was never wholly there for the person in the first place; Cho, Ginny – he had shied sharply away from actually falling in love, terrified that his dependence upon anyone, his need for anyone could only ever be a curse on them.

  
  


It was no wonder he had held back from Draco so hard. Now, watching him – even now that he is _his,_ he watches him all the time, just like he always did, loving the lines of him in the candlelight, the silver of him in shadow and the gold in his hair in the morning. It terrifies him that he has fallen so hard, scares him to near paralysis to know that he might have condemned him to death by not being able to stop himself from loving him. Sometimes he feels himself unable to let him out of his sight for fear of losing him. Sometimes even that isn't enough – not when so many of them where _in_ his sight after all when they died. Draco looks so fragile sometimes, so ethereal, like a moonbeam across his bed – it feels like he could just blow away like sand from between his fingers. Sometimes he can hardly hold on tight enough.

  
  


He caught himself saying _their_ home the instant he said it, realised in that moment the assumption he has made – realised, only then, that he had already decided in his mind that they would be together forever now, just like he had once decided with Sirius, just like he had once been convinced that the Burrow would be his home one day. Now the only thing that feels like home is Draco and he rather suspects that to see this one go would be the one loss he could not tolerate.

The fact is that the fear of it all makes him unsure he is making the right decision in choosing to return to Hogwarts for their final year. As soon as this occurs to him he decides to talk about it to someone. He formulates a definite plan to do it just after their visit to Diagon Alley, a bit late he supposes but once again – everything has happened so fast since decisions were made. But then he looks over at Draco in Madam Malkin's, sees him smile, remembers with him that first meeting and how excited they both were – albeit at a distance to each other then that they do not have now – and he can only assume that Draco's mentioning it means he is just as excited to be going back now. He cannot bring himself to broach his uncertainties about the whole thing in the face of what looks to him like Draco's enthusiasm; he could never do anything to dampen any spark of brightness in him. So he does not mention it.

  
  


As the days go by not mentioning it becomes a habit, one which weighs on him more and more until the constant awareness that there is Something going unsaid between them starts to make him angry, to make him tetchy. With Draco. Which is utterly unfair of him and he knows it, though the knowledge does not lessen the issue in the slightest. Worse, Draco keeps getting tetchy back at him and it feels almost like falling back into the old days of verbal sparring and hell, maybe Draco doesn't want nay of this, any of _him_ after all. Certainly the way he sneers the word _saviour_ would imply it – hitting at Harry where he knows the spike will sting, just like he has always been far too capable of doing.

  
  


Which is why, when he gets up early that morning and slouches heavily into the kitchen, Hermione greets him with -

  
  


“Alright Harry, come on, what's the matter?”

  
  


He genuinely means to shrug and say it's nothing, he really does, but he has spent far too long around Hermione and talked to her about far too much to lie to her, and what comes out instead is -

  
  


“I dunno Hermione, what could _possibly_ be the matter?”

  
  


“I mean – I don't _know,_ Harry? That's literally why I asked? You've not been yourself these last few days, maybe a bit longer, and I think it's since we started planning for next term – is it something to do with that?”

  
  


“Yeah -” he leans back against the heavy wood table, slumping his shoulders and curling his hands protectively around a cup of tea held in front of him - “Yeah it's that – it's just – it's just _everything –_ it feels so fast – so sudden – I don't know if I'm really ready -”

  
  


“You _are_ ready Harry, you can do this.”

  
  


Hermione's certainty irks him, the last irk perhaps in a long line of everyone's confidence in him irking him.

  
  


“That's just it Hermione! I don't know if I _can_ do this!”

  
  


Hermione bites her lip and nods thoughtfully, and he's grateful to her for not just giving him the dismissive _of course you can_ he had feared she might.

  
  


“Have you talked to Draco about this?” she asks instead, surprising him and giving him that plummeting sensation of guilt all at once, because he hasn't of course and he was feeling bad about that _anyway - “_ Does he know your having – doubts? Qualms about the whole thing?”

  
  


“Of course he doesn't know! I can't tell him! I have to be stronger than this don't I? For everyone. As bloody usual.”

  
  


He doesn't mean to snap, it's just the relief of actually being able to talk about it coupled with the awareness that it _should_ probably be Draco he's talking to.

  
  


“Harry it's not your job to -”

  
  


“It is though isn't it?” - bitterly - “It always is. I have to be the adult. I've had to since I was twelve. Sometimes I just get so bloody _sick_ of it -”

  
  


He really is, more than he can say, it's not the first time the frustration has threatened to overwhelm him and he kicks whatever unfortunate article of furniture comes to hand. Hermione simply regards him calmly and takes a sip of her tea.

  
  


“ _Why_ haven't you talked to your boyfriend about this?”

  
  


“Ughhhffff -” he groans, because he's been asking himself the same question and he sighs, the words coming out quiet, a little defeated.

  
  


“I don't want to burst his bubble about it. I think – like – he's really into it – just like the rest of you and if I said I wasn't he might – deflate – it's horrible, I can't make him sad, not ever and that's the other thing isn't it? This – with Draco – it's all happened so fast too and now – now I have to think about that and what it all means -”

  
  


“Why?”

  
  


“Well because – because I -” he almost whispers it for fear of the truth shattering everything if it came out with too much volume. “Because I don't think I've ever felt like this about anyone? Because I think – I think just maybe, this could be it -” he nods, feeling the lump of terror in his throat that tells him this is true - “The big one. I think I really, really love him Hermione and I can't do that to someone – you know what happens -”

  
  


“Have you told him this?”

  
  


“Yeah right, like I could tell him that. I think you all forget how much I used to hate him. It's all just happened so fast, I'm only seventeen, Hermione, did you remember? Cause I'd sure as hell forgotten. It's too much – I can't -” he sighs enormously - “I can't suddenly tell him he's the world to me can I? He'd do a bloody runner.”

  
  


“It's not a proposal of marriage Harry, I think you really _could –_ what was that?”

  
  


Harry jumps at the same time as Hermione to the sound of a huge bang, like a door slamming so catastrophically the whole house reverberates with it. It occurs to him for the first time that there were actually others in the kitchen with them all this time, George sitting quietly reading at the table and pretending not to be hearing them, Ron frying bacon with his back turned stoically to them and Narcissa wandering in just as Hermione was saying this last thing.

  
  


“I dunno -” for some reason his heart misses a beat at the bang and it's not just from the startle of it but a weird slick sense of dread - “Sounded like a door slamming.”

  
  


“It was -” Luna wanders in - “Draco just stormed out the front door. He looked really miserable, Harry.” She says this so accusingly he has to ask -

“He did? Why? When?”

  
  


“Just now. Just after you said how much you used to hate him and you couldn't do this any more.” She sits down at the table and reaches for the toast. 

  
  


“Offorfuckssake -” Harry moans in a low wail, closing his eyes for the pain of it and finding when he opens them again that everyone is staring at him expectantly.

  
  


“Shit,” he says to clarify, almost a question as he realises how it must have sounded to Draco, how Draco always misinterprets him so easily even at the best of times, how quick he is to doubt that he means anything to anyone, let alone Harry. He stares at Hermione helplessly for a second; she simply stares back with her eyebrows raised like it's obvious -

  
  


“The fuck do I do?” he moans and it is not just Hermione, but the whole room that yells -

  
  


“ _Go after him of course!”_

  
  


“Right.” Harry's heart is already racing. “Of course – I'm -” he turns and heads quickly for the hall. In the kitchen doorway he almost runs straight into Lucius Malfoy and his feet feel electric with the need to run past, brain shrieking _Oh god what now?_ But Lucius simply stands aside for him and in a moment fraught with tension murmurs -

  
  


“Potter?”

  
  


“Yes?” impatiently. Lucius's lip twitches -

  
  


“Get him back,” he says, and Harry runs.

  
  


It is so rare they even use the front door of Number Twelve, and he is in such a panicked hurry that he does not even close it behind him, running straight out into the street and looking left to right wildly. For a minute, his vision is so blurry with his own panic that he does not even see Draco anywhere on the street and then he does, right down the far end and disappearing round the corner at a brisk walk.

  
  


He runs.

  
  


He never ran so fast in his life. Not when there were Dementors after him, or Snatchers, or Death Eaters. His life never felt quite so threatened as it feels just in the short moment when he thinks he is about to see Draco Malfoy disappear from him around that corner. He almost crashes into him as he screeches to a standstill. If Draco hears him approach he pretends that he doesn't, and just keeps on walking the whole time. Harry has to grab his arm to stop him and even then it is only that he has the slight upper hand as far as strength goes that makes him drag Draco to a standstill and turn him round.

  
  


“Draco -” he wheezes, struggling to talk for a moment - “- stop.”

  
  


“Fuck off, Potter -” Draco snarls like a cornered cat, prickly and hissing, trying to drag himself out of Harry's grip .

  
  


“Ugh – let go of me!”

  
  


“No.” Harry holds on tighter - “- Never. Let me explain -”

  
  


He wishes he could talk quicker, that his lungs would allow him air, but he ran too fast, too breathless and Draco's lip twitches and curls -

  
  


“What? How you always hated me? How it's all been too much too fast and you can't do this any more? Fuck you Potter, I don't want to hear it,” Draco almost screeches, finally yanking his arm away and looking ready to run off at any moment, although it is not lost on Harry that he doesn't.

  
  


“Didn't your mother ever tell you it was rude to eavesdrop, Malfoy?”

  
  


“Die in a fucking fire Potter.”

  
  


“Nearly.” Sometimes he wishes snark was not his first point of retreat, always, just like it is Draco's, gods how can they do this? Perhaps they really are wrong for each other – but when he thinks about them _not_ being he feels like he might be sick, might just stop being altogether.

  
  


“Once,” he adds - “Didn't do it so I could lose you now.”

  
  


“Oh yeah,” Draco sneers - “That's right. Remind me what I owe you. Thought you were entitled to me did you? Thought you could just do what you wanted then get rid of me? Is that all I – gods, never mind, I don't care, I don't give a fuck, do you hear?”

  
  


“He says in a _gives a fuck_ voice with a _giving a fuck_ expression.”

  
  


“Shut the _fuck_ up Potter. If you _can't tell me_ you're done with me, bloody well don't and see if I care. I'm not stuck here. I can go where I want.”

  
  


“I wasn't going to tell you that -”

  
  


“No, you were just gonna wait until I heard you tell Granger. Coward.”

  
  


Harry yells incoherently before slapping himself in the face, the old urge to slap Draco instead welling up in him unhelpfully and he won't, it's not right, not any more.

  
  


“You're an idiot!” he yells - “You didn't even wait around to hear what I was going to say, did you? You just jumped to the worst conclusion, whatever validates your ridiculous lack of self worth -”

  
  


“ _Ridiculous –_ how _dare -”_

  
  


“Shut up. You didn't even stay around long enough to hear me say you were _everything_ to me and how the hell was I supposed to tell you that?”

  
  


Draco blinks so rapidly in his double take that it's almost comical.

  
  


“What?”

  
  


“You heard. Or rather -” Harry snaps - “You didn't. Because you were _so_ eager to drama the fuck out and prepare for the worst. Because you're a moron and an utter utter twat.”

  
  


“Wow.”

  
  


“Shut up, you dickhead, yeah, everything, everything I ever wanted Draco -” his voice softens and with the softening his voice cracks, ready to break, ready to cry - “- I love you. I love you like I've never loved anything and it scares me half to death and more -” he's shaking, even Draco can see it and his eyes, watching Harry, soften too - “- because I can't lose you. Even when you drive me insane. Even when I hate you. Do you know who told me to go after you?”

  
  


“Who?”

  
  


“ _Everyone._ I mean _actually_ everyone. Even your father -” he frowns for a moment - “ _Especially_ your father – I don't -” he shakes his head - “I can't even start to unpack what that might mean but -”

  
  


“But I _heard_ you – I did – you told Granger you weren't ready, that you didn't know how to tell me -”

  
  


“That was about _school_ you prat, I didn't – I was worried about going back – I didn't want to tell you because you weren't -”

  
  


“But I _was.”_

  
  


“What?”

  
  


“ _I_ was worried about going back. Doesn't mean I'm not going to, but yeah – alright, it was freaking me out – only I couldn't tell you because I didn't think you'd want to hear it.”

  
  


“I didn't tell _you_ because I didn't think _you'd_ want to hear it.”

  
  


They look at each other for a moment, and Harry feels his lips pull in a snort at the same time as he sees the wry smirk at the corner of Draco's mouth. He wants to kiss it, he always has. He wants to grab him right now and hold him so close he could never possibly get away. He wants to seize on to his scrap of starlight with everything he has and keep it close, keep him safe. He wants guarantees that everything will always be alright, that they will be forever, that nothing bad could possibly happen to either of them again. He wants too much and he knows it.

  
  


“It's – _different_ -” he says it apologetically, just like he has always felt apologetic for being _The Boy Who Lived –_ sometimes he has felt as though the title mocked him, inherently blaming him for all those who hadn't.

  
  


“It's different for me too,” Draco scowls a little. For a moment, in the pale ray of August sunshine, a colour hovering between silver and gold haloing him, he looks very young, his eyes searching Harry's face for reassurance he's not sure he can give. “They'll hate me,” he shrugs.

  
  


“I'd _rather_ they hated me,” Harry sighs.

  
  


“No you wouldn't.”

  
  


“But we're going anyway, aren't we?”

  
  


“ _We -”_ Draco echoes, half wistfully - “Are we? You know – _us?”_

  
  


“Please –“ Harry whispers, terrified - “Draco please, don't make me, but I'll beg you to be mine if I have to. We can talk can't we? We can talk about everything?”

  
  


“I suppose we'll have to,” Draco's smirk pulls up on both sides - “Since I suspect we'll break everybody's heart if we don't -” he doesn't say _not to mention mine_ but his eyes plead with Harry to understand that he means it.

  
  


“Malfoy -” Harry gulps, all of a sudden Harry knows what to do; it's so clear to him and he's more afraid than ever because he knows Draco has every right to refuse him.

  
  


“Potter?”

  
  


He closes his eyes and thrusts out his hand.

  
  


“Take my hand?” He can feel his fingers shaking, his whole arm shaking. He can see Draco's throat move as he swallows.

  
  


“Seven years -” Draco starts to say, and Harry does not know if he means it's _seven years too late_ or if he has just been waiting seven years for Harry to offer his hand. He sees a battle cross Draco's face that he suspects is between instinct and a stubborn promise to himself never to take his hand even if he _did_ offer it. He feels, acutely, how Draco must have felt all those years ago when their roles were reversed and he had been the one to refuse Draco. He _deserves_ to be refused now and he knows it, he is almost ready to give up, ready to die, mind spinning out of control with loss -

  
  


Draco takes his hand.

  
  


He smiles, sort of shy. Draco smiles. It's the same. They glitter together in the late summer light. They form one long shadow heading back along the street to home.

  
  


They go home.

  
  


__x__

  
  


**Finished! I _did_ promise a happy ending! I've just started straight off on my next piece of Drarry ! It's called "Ladder to the stars" and is ...um a _Velvet Goldmine_ \- Wizard-glam-rock!Draco AU! Roll with it! I am! Dunno when I'll be able to start posting tho I'm real ill just at the moment :-P Boo!**   
  


**Anyway! Let me know me know what you'd thought of this - it was my first attempt at a length Drarry fic and I'm low key happy with it I think, thanks for reading! :-)**

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  



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